The Soloist
by verotruth
Summary: Bella begrudgingly takes in a rare bit of culture when her best friend takes her to the symphony. Sure to hate every musical minute of it, Bella finds herself surprised when she lays eyes on the guest soloist and his talented violin hands. O/S AH Lemon


**Disclaimer: **Stephenie Meyer owns the recipe, I just baked the cookies and added lemon zest. And some lemon juice. And quite possibly the whole freaking lemon.

I was inspired after watching _The Red Violin_, a movie I recommend to you all.

-x-x-x-x-x-

The Soloist

BPOV

I stood staring at the dress hanging on the back of my door on the other side of the room. I arched a brow at it as if I expected it to start speaking and explain itself. I smacked my gum unnecessarily loud just so that it would fully understand and appreciate my complete and utter disgust with having to wear it later.

It was pretty, I'd give it that. It was strapless, some kind of A-line thing, in a beautiful sapphire color. But it wasn't me. Just as I could acknowledge a cute black and pink stripped gothic skirt, it wasn't me and I would never wear it. But this dress I was staring at? I had to wear it.

All of a sudden my phone buzzed in my front pocket. I didn't break the defeated look I was giving the dress as I pulled my phone out of my pocket and pressed the green button. Without even looking at the screen, I knew who it was.

"Yes, Alice?"

"Hey!" she basically screamed. She had to take some kind of hyper pills because no one was as chipper as she was. And she was always like that. I always wondered what she would be like in a terrible mood. But knowing Alice, it was probably virtually impossible.

I smacked my gum and rolled it around in my mouth like a cow in answer.

"Didn't I tell you to stop chewing that crap? You'll get cavities." I heard a faint _tisk tisk_ on the other end and I wanted to reach into the phone and strangle her.

"Who knows? Maybe I'll get one now and I'll have to go to the dentist and miss this thing."

"Bella," she whined. But she perked up immediately. "If you have no teeth when you're thirty, don't say I didn't warn you."

I pulled my gum from my mouth with my free hand and watched it create a pink bridge several inches from my face. I imagined tiny blue smurfs walking across it.

"Are you ready yet?" she asked and I could tell she was bouncing. "Are you almost done? Do you need help?"

I stared at my gum and attempted to create some kind of shape with the strings coming out of my mouth. But they were getting dry and stiff so I sucked them back through my lips like spaghetti.

"Bella?" she asked. "Are you there?"

I made an affirmative noise and continued smacking. "Am I allowed to talk now?"

I heard her squee on the other side and I had to pull the phone away from my ear so my hearing wasn't damaged.

"Okay, we'll be there in about half an hour. I can't wait!"

I twirled my finger in the air and rolled my eyes at the dress. "Woo hoo."

"Bye, Bella!" She hung up with a laugh.

I stuffed my phone back in my pocket and continued staring at the dress. What on earth possessed me to allow Alice to not only take me tonight, but to also buy me this ridiculous dress? I'll never know. I'll just excuse it as intoxication and insane lapse of judgment.

I looked in the mirror and grumbled at my appearance. I was in jeans and a t-shirt, my hair was some kind of mess-slash-crazed-array and my lips were red from playing with my gum. I was no where near ready and Alice was going to be picking me up in about five minutes. She said half an hour, but Alice was always one of those people that added car accidents, insane traffic, sky clowns attacking her car, and erupting volcanoes into her travel plans.

I walked over to the dress and pulled the hanger down so it was eye-level with me. What was I supposed to wear underneath it anyway? I didn't even own a strapless bra because all I wore were t-shirts. Then again, it's not like I had the boobs to need a strapless bra. And if Alice thought I was going to wear pantyhose, I'd choke her with them.

I jumped in the shower and a few minutes later, Alice pulled the curtain open and scared the bejesus out of me. She stood there with her hand on her hips, eyeing me like baby'd done a bad, bad thing.

"Christ, Alice!" I screamed, attempting to cover myself. "I want my key back."

"Bella, we're going to be late!" she whined.

I laughed and rinsed my hair. "Alice, it doesn't start until seven. We have two hours. I think we're good."

She pouted. "Bella, what if something happens on the way there?"

The woman was insane. I had absolutely no idea why she was my best friend.

"I checked the news, Al. No mudslides or hurricanes are hitting Chicago tonight. Scout's honor."

I turned off the water and wrapped a towel around me. Alice watched and was rushing me with her eyes. If we didn't leave with an hour to spare, she was going to hurt me, I knew it. But my job was done. She was going to dress and groom me like a child anyway. God knows I'm ignorant when it comes to girly things.

Alice pulled me down to the kitchen and I was going to say hi to Jasper before she raked a brush through my hair and made me scream.

"OW, ALICE!"

She giggled and pulled some more. "Sorry."

Jasper watched for a few minutes and he winced along with me. Just when I was certain that she had singlehandedly pulled all my hair out, Jasper excused himself to go wait in the car. I wanted to join him.

After an hour of pulling, combing, pushing, brushing, spraying, patting, and pinning, my hair was done. But she wouldn't let me see what kind of monstrosity she had created on my head. It was a surprise, she'd said. Yeah, well she'd also said that about my birthday present. And what did I get? Tickets to the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Yes, because it was just my thing.

As much as I loved Alice, I would never understand why she did the things she did. I was more of a Tori and Patti Smith kind of girl. And she was going to take me to listen to music written by guys long dead and with names I couldn't pronounce even if I tried really hard. But she wanted to go the symphony and figured that I would love to go as well.

Alice pushed me into my room and made sure I didn't look into any mirrors on the way. She handed me my dress and I cringed at it. Had she been any other person, she might have slapped me for my lack of enthusiasm. But Alice being Alice, she simply jumped up a few times and clapped her hands.

"C'mon, Bella! Put it on! Put it on!"

I unzipped the long dress in the back and puddled it at my feet so I could step into it. I slid it up my body, feeling more and more uncomfortable as the soft fabric felt more and more foreign against my skin. I was used to denim and cotton. I was now wearing taffeta and satin.

As soon as the dress was up in place, Alice zipped it closed behind me and I turned with a fake smile. My hands were out to the sides in spirit fingers and I wiggled them to make any cheer coach proud. Alice jumped up and down again, this time more vigorously and she ushered me to stand in front of the full-length mirror.

Crap.

"Alice," I whined, stretching her name out like a two-year old. "I look like I'm going to prom."

She jumped some more, the smile on her face widening.

The dress was even worse than I imagined once it was on. It hugged me down to my hips and belled out like a ball gown. It fell down to the floor and was too long. Alice probably did it on purpose to ensure that I'd wear heels. She was a tricky little bitch.

"It's perfect!" she squealed, still jumping.

I turned to her, the scowl on my face out and proud. "How is it perfect? High school was ten years ago, Al."

She paid absolutely no attention to my protests and rubbed her thumb under my eye to even out the eyeliner. I looked back in the mirror to gauge what she'd done to my hair and my face. The hair was terrible. It was up in some kind of French knot-slash-twist -with-shiny-pin-thing. I patted it and it was sticky and hard, clearly drenched in hair spray. My fingers also passed over a few bobby pins and I winced at the pressure they were already pressing against my scalp.

The makeup, though, wasn't that bad. She went lighter than she usually did and only used some black liner and a dark blue shadow that went up on some kind of weird angle. It was pretty. Maybe. Grr.

"Bella, I'm so excited!" she said, jumping again.

"And you're sure that I won't be the only person in one of these get-ups?"

Alice put some earrings in my ears and shook her head. "It's called a dress, Bella. And yes, this is what people wear to symphonies. Relax."

I turned to her and tried not to pay attention to the mysterious weight the mascara placed on my lashes. And the lipgloss made my lips feel ten pounds heavier.

"So what are you going to wear?" I asked, eyeing her regular and casual look. If she got to go in jeans, I'd suffocate her with the dress she was making me wear.

She twirled like a ballerina and smiled. "My gown's downstairs! I'll be right back!" She went to retrieve a black bag that she'd left by the door and ran into the bathroom, fumbling with squees and strange high-pitched sounds.

I stared at myself in the mirror and slowly imagined an imaginary hand wiping all the gunk from my face. I had to admit, Alice did perform something close to a miracle. But it wasn't me at all. I looked like some kind of Barbie copy from the lunch table in high school that I'd sworn to always make fun of. And now I was a member.

Damn it. The symphony better be damned good.

Alice bounded upstairs and she raced into the room, almost knocking me over on my ass, and she jumped up and down a few more times. She was lucky that she wasn't bigger than a B cup. With all the jumping, the tatas would be hitting her stomach before she was thirty.

"So… do you like it?" she inquired, twirling a little too fast for a ballerina this time. "It's Gucci!"

I nodded, eyeing the strange garment up and down. Unlike the dress she'd bought me, hers had straps and it wasn't a poufy ball gown. It was pretty in a weird kind of way—in an Alice kind of way. Had she gotten me the thing she was going to wear, I'd have thrown it out the window before she'd had a chance to strap me down. It was frilly and lacy. I'd wear a ball gown, but I wouldn't wear that. Absolutely not.

"It's… uh… very… you, Al," I told her honestly. I wasn't sure anyone else could have pulled it off except for her.

She beamed, twirling with her arms raised. "I got it in Paris last month. I've been saving it for the right occasion."

I rolled my eyes. She was such a girl sometimes. "And the Chicago Symphony is the right occasion? Really, Al? Of all things."

Seemingly not caring about my slight, she looked down at the Tiffany's watch on her delicate wrist and jumped straight up in the air. She had to have been made of springs. "We're going to be late!"

I didn't pay her that much attention. She had to check herself in the mirror several times, checking and rechecking her teeth to make sure her red lipstick hadn't smudged. If her hair had anymore hairspray in it, she would have gotten high. When she came near me with some sort of cosmetic brush, I backed away in fear.

"We're going to be late," I reminded her.

With that, she jumped again and grabbed her shoes, running back downstairs. I slung mine on my fingers and carried them out to the car where Jasper was waiting.

"Bella, your feet are getting filthy. Put your shoes on!"

I stuck my tongue out at her, hung the shoes over my shoulder, and continued walking down the driveway. I didn't care if my feet were completely black. Besides, I'd have shoes on when we got there. And another besides, with the length of the dress, I had high doubts that anyone would be seeing the soles of my feet anyway.

We got settled in the car, Alice making double checks that our hair wasn't messed up solely by sitting down the wrong way. She also positioned me in the best way to ensure that the back of my dress wasn't wrinkled. Because I wasn't going to be sitting for three hours once we got there anyway.

"Ready?" Jasper asked as he started the ignition. He smiled at me in the rearview mirror and I smiled back as best I could.

Alice bounced in the front seat the entire drive and I had to close my eyes and breathe deep and smooth in order to restrain my desires to reach over and strangle the life out of her. Alice wasn't helping with the headache the bobby pins were giving me.

_Beem sala beem_, I chanted to myself. In truth, I had absolutely no idea what it meant or what language it was. But some guru instructed John Cusak's cracked character to chant it whenever he was stressed. If it was good enough for an actor playing a psycho actor, it was good enough for me.

If Alice hadn't been so preoccupied with her nails while we drove, she would have bitten them all down to the nub in her nervousness. But Jasper, gods love him, he was calm and collected, even sitting right next to the most neurotic person ever to grace the planet.

"We only have an hour before the show starts," Alice said, panicking. "What if we don't make it?" I shook my head and held my tongue in the backseat. Jasper simply smiled and kissed the back of her hand, calmly maneuvering through traffic like it was his job.

By the time we arrived, Alice had driven me crazy to the point that I was ready to rip my hair out. But that would only have made matters worse. I had to poke and push at the bobby pins because I was sure my head was going to explode with all the pressure they were applying.

Jasper pulled up next to the theater and as he stepped around to open mine and Alice's doors, I noticed that he had changed as well. He must have changed in the car while he waited for Alice to finish grooming. I wondered if the neighbors had seen. Still, he looked rather not-too-shabby. His tux was pressed, the crisp shirt showing in all the right places, bowtie and cummerbund neatly in place, and his hair was combed and slicked back like a gentleman. My gods, what did Alice do to us?

Smiling, Alice took Jasper's arm as the valet drove the car away. I stood staring up at the theater, for some reason imagining gargoyles squawking back at me. When I realized that I wasn't in Disney's _Hunchback_, I stepped up from the curb, pulling my dress above my feet like Cinderella and was shocked when I saw Jasper holding his arm out to me.

"May I escort you, milady?" he asked in his finest Texas drawl.

I looked over to Alice and she seemed just as inviting as Jasper. Other than simply not wanting to appear alone in the swarm of tuxes and dresses, I also wanted something to keep me upright in case my ankles decided the heels were not to their liking. So I took Jasper's arm and he directed us inside the building.

A bald man with a curlicue mustache took our tickets and bowed as we walked past him and up stairs that were carpeted with what looked to be red velvet. But surely, they didn't use velvet as carpet, did they? No matter. It took some of the pressure off my heels as we walked up to the third level. I assumed that there would be no elevator, but that was until we made it up to the third level, huffing and puffing, and I saw some golden doors open at the far end.

We walked up to a long red curtain and there was an older man with spectacles waiting for us. He bowed slightly as Jasper showed him our tickets and he proceeded to pull the curtain open for us, smiling at me and Alice as we walked past.

I wasn't really paying attention to where I was walking and almost walked right into Alice and Jasper when they stopped right in front of me. I could hear the imaginary sounds of a bowling alley in the back of my mind as I struggled to get my balance on the heels Alice was making me wear. I knew that as soon as I sat down, the first order of business was going to be to remove my shoes.

"Woh," I said, taking in the box. "I didn't know you had one of these."

Alice giggled into Jasper's shoulder. "It's dad's. He made a big donation to the symphony last year."

"Woh," I repeated. "Be sure to thank Daddy C."

I looked around and felt like I was almost face-to-face with whoever was going to be on stage shortly. The box hung on the left side of the stage, the closest on that side. It was a perfect view.

"Champagne, ma'am?"

I spun around and almost hit the poor guy with the tiny clutch Alice gave me at the house. He was a sneaky little bastard.

Alice giggled again and asked for three glasses. I took my seat in a nice plush chair that was also covered in some kind of red velvet. The arms and the back look like they were painted in gold and for a moment, I felt like royalty. Long live the Queen!

Just as the little old man brought us our glasses and filled them with some bubbly, he also handed us a program and informed us that he'd be right outside the curtain if we needed anything else. I eyed him as he left, laughing with my eyes as I imagined having one of him with me all the time.

_Yes, I need more ketchup for my fries._

_Yes, tell the asshole that parked there to move up four inches so my car will fit._

_Yes, tell the Starbucks barista that if she ever puts non-fat milk in my latte again, she can drink it._

Yes, my own little butler would do nicely.

I looked through the program and sipped my champagne as we had an ungodly amount of time to kill. Thanks to Alice. Thanks to her neurotic need to be almost an hour early for the performance. People trickled in and took their seats. Below. All the way down there. Suckers.

The program was solid black in a glossy and pretty paper that I deemed much too expensive for something most people were going to toss on their way out anyway. The front had simple white lettering that printed a revealing CHICAGO SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA. I turned open the front cover and was graced with pictures of instruments and people playing them captured in artistic angles. There was also the occasional ad instructing me where to bank and to visit the newest jewelry store on the Mile. The pictures of the diamonds shown in the ad definitely had my vote. If only I had the cash. Maybe I'd sell the dress Alice got me and I could get myself a fabulous pair of earrings.

I finally reached the table of contents and skimmed. I saw some Italian names, some Polish or Czech names, I saw Mozart and I recognized that one, and as I kept skimming, nothing else held my interest. So I turned the page. Pictures. While I knew how to read, no adult can say that pictures are not entertaining.

The conductor's picture was first, a man in his fifties, white hair, a beard, and glasses that hung low on his nose. His picture was also accompanied by a blurb about where he was trained, where he made his debut, and how many years he'd been conducting. I never really understood why all of that mattered. Didn't he just wave his arms around to the music like the rest of us? I would make a fine composer, no doubt.

Following him were pictures of all the other musicians. Cellos, violas, violins, basses, pianos, French horns, trumpets, clarinets, flutes, tuba, timpani, oboes, and bassoons. I assumed that a bassoon was instrument made of African wood with a red butt. And what the hell is a viola anyway? I get the violin, but a viola? And the bass? What were they going to do with an electric guitar at a symphony?

The musicians were all… refined… looking. They were all so neat and prim. And that most likely meant boring. I noticed that most of the strings and winds were women. They were pictured holding their instruments close to their faces like a lover. Men seemed more partial to the larger instruments like the tuba and the French horn. Having taken psych classes in college, I attributed it to their desire to overcompensate for other… smaller… issues in their life. Same for the guys that bought enormous he-man trucks that could pull forty ton rocks through the desert. Because that was what every American boy needed. Just in case the nearest skyscraper fell down and all the bulldozers in the country were out of commission.

Towards the end of the musician list, some guy named Simon was noted to be a bass player. I pictured him coming out on stage and rocking out like Johnny Ramone. Well, at least the night had something going for it. Maybe some of the names of the composers listed in the front had actually been before their time and written something that could really be appreciated.

I turned through the pages, skimming over prestigious music schools, strange words like orchestral and baritone. I paid more attention to the men in the symphony, but was sadly disappointed to see that most were twenty years my senior. The small hope I had for the evening was to take one of the musicians home with me. But at least I wouldn't have to worry about a guy jumping out of bed because he had to practice some song that he'd just gotten in his head. I chuckled to myself.

I got to the last page and was surprised that I wasn't met with a picture and a blurb. Instead, this guy had his own page all to himself and his picture was three times the size as everyone else's. I was about to turn the page, really not that interested in the guy that owned the symphony, when I realized that he was cute. Like really cute. Even more than cute, he was damn near hot.

EDWARD CULLEN, Guest Soloist.

I read all about him and though I wasn't sure exactly what everything meant, I knew that he was an impressive guy. After graduating from Juilliard at nineteen, he made his debut with The Berlin Philharmonic to high-standing praise. In truth, I didn't really care about all the fancy-schmancy stuff. His picture was enough to get my attention.

Even in black and white, I could tell he had colored eyes. Blue, perhaps. He leaned close to the camera, the expression on his face calm and serene, his eyes piercing. Under his chin was a shiny and polished violin that stretched out towards me and I caught a brief glimpse of a few of his fingers before the picture cut off. His fingers looked nimble and well-trained. And his eyes were just fucking beautiful. Beautiful on its own wasn't enough. Fucking beautiful was the only way to describe him.

I read on and saw that he would be playing the solo in two violin concertos during the show. Like a madwoman, I scrambled through the program to the table of contents to see the schedule. I scanned for the violin solo and was disappointed to see that his solos were the last two performances of the night. After the intermission, he would play the solos in Bruch's_Violin Concerto No. 1 in G minor, Op. 26_ and in Tchaikovsky's _Violin Concert in D major, Op. 35_. I had no idea what they were or what they sounded like, but they were suddenly my new favorite songs.

"Alice," I said as I looked up to her. She quickly broke her lips from Jasper's and looked over to me. "How much longer?"

She tilted her wrist to look at the delicate watch she wore and explained that there were only a few minutes left. And then she went back to snogging Jasper like a teenager. I rolled my eyes at them and looked back at my program, flipping immediately to the soloist's picture.

From experience, I knew that I wasn't a fan of classical music. Maybe my mother had put huge headphones on her belly and blasted Beethoven into her womb, or maybe I was knocked on the head as a toddler and taught to appreciate the Sex Pistols as true music. Either way, it wasn't my thing. But Mr. Edward Cullen, Violinist Extraordinaire just might change that.

I stared at his picture, imagining all kinds of fucking beautiful colors his eyes could be. Maybe hazel, light brown, dark blue, green… What if he had purple eyes like Liz Taylor? It honestly didn't matter what color they were. He was fucking beautiful and any eye color would look amazing on him.

I looked up when I heard some kind of instrumental noise coming from the stage below. If that was what Alice had brought me to see, I'd hit her over the head with a spatula. I noted that the musicians were taking their seats, some scooting this way and that, others making sure they were comfortable and that their instruments were well placed. A woman in a long skirt positioned a huge cello between her legs and she rested her arm on the top.

"That's a huge cello," I commented.

"That's the bass, Bella," Alice corrected with a grin.

Ohhhhhh.

Well damn. That meant no Johnny Ramone going on tonight. Oh well. But it almost didn't matter. I had Mr. Soloist to look forward to anyway.

I craned my neck to get a good look at all the musicians as they took their positions. A few of the violinists in the front were passing their bows over the strings, making some strange musical sounds. I heard the tapping of the stands being placed in front of them, others were checking and tuning their instruments.

"What's got you so interested, Bella?" Alice asked, taking the program from my hands. She chuckled when she looked at what I had been salivating over. If she even thought I'd let her have my fucking beautiful soloist, she had another thing coming.

"Ah… it seems Bella has discovered the special guest," she told Jasper, handing him the program so he could see. "Maybe you should introduce them."

My eyes nearly bugged out of my head. "You know him?"

Jasper smiled and nodded. "Sure do. His sister married my brother a few years back."

I snatched the program back and cuddled it close to my chest as if I were protecting a baby from harm. I made a vague mental note that Mr. Soloist's face was pressed against my cleavage. He could stay there.

"Is he—is he any good?" I asked stupidly. Obviously, given the fact that he not only had a whole page dedicated to information about him, and that he'd graduated from Juilliard, he was more than good.

Jasper leaned close to whisper in my ear as if he were just about to shatter everything I'd ever known. "Better than good. He's the best." And he winked at me as he sat back up in his chair, pulling Alice more into his lap.

I knew it. He was good. He was better than good. He was the best.

I heard clapping coming from below the box, the entire theater filled with the sound of applause. I realized that I had been far too lost in my thoughts about Mr. Soloist to realize that the conductor's name was said over the speaker. I looked down and saw a man in a penguin suit walking across the stage. He took a spot in the center and bowed, enjoying the applause. I didn't clap because he wasn't my fucking beautiful Mr. Soloist Extraordinaire, and therefore nothing special.

Finally, after the conductor was satisfied with the raging applause that echoed through the theater, he turned around to his orchestra and took hold of his pointer thing. It was a long, white stick and as soon as he grabbed it, all the musicians were at the ready for him.

I scanned all the seated musicians, the violins in particular, and didn't see Mr. Fucking Beautiful. He was missing and I was losing interest even before the show started. But I remembered the program saying that the guest of honor would be in the last two performances. So I'd have to wait.

The conductor looked over his orchestra and raised both arms out to the sides. With a flick of his wrist and a gesture that looked like he was air-hugging the entire group of musicians and their beloved instruments, they were off.

I sat back in my seat, looking absently to Alice and Jasper, whose faces had lit up with the beginning of the music, and sulked. It was everything I had expected and worse. No Johnny Ramone. And the stringy sounds that were coming from below me were not holding my interest at all. I checked the program again and counted the amount of songs that I'd have to sit through before I saw Mr. Soloist Extraordinaire in all his fucking beauty. Three songs before the intermission—half an hour at that—and one after. So all in all, I'd be waiting over an hour to finally find out what color his eyes were.

The entire time before the intermission, I ignored most of the music, staring at Mr. Soloist Extraordinaire's picture and imagined just how talented his fingers could be on his… instrument.

* * *

EPOV

Shit. Sure they'd invented medication for depression and anxiety and pretty much everything else under the fucking sun. But had they invented a drug to get rid of stage fright? Bastards.

Well, in truth, I don't have stage fright. I just get extremely, and I mean extremely, nervous before I go on stage. Even during my audition for Juilliard several years before, I almost fainted and walked out.

My hands were trembling and I had to put my violin down because I was afraid I'd break it. And I couldn't break it. Because it wasn't mine. Sure, I had a violin. Actually, I had many. But the one I was playing tonight was on loan from a museum in New York that requested I play it to keep it in tune. Antique instruments needed to be played every now and again to ensure that they were still in working condition.

So I put the violin down because if I broke a two hundred year old violin, it'd be my head. And I didn't need to put any more pressure on myself than I already had.

"Did you want some water, sir?" a young guy asked, handing me a water bottle. Without answering, I took the bottle and downed it as fast as I could. Perhaps that wasn't such a good idea because now with a stomach full of water, I was beginning to get queasy.

I pulled at the bowtie around my neck, wanting nothing more than to pull it off and be free of the monkey suit I had to wear to events like these. Whoever decided that musicians had to wear tuxes should be burned at the stake. What was wrong with performing in jeans, exactly?

The intermission had just ended and in about twenty minutes, I would have to go out there. No matter how many performances I did, no matter how many times I heard applause when I finished the last few notes, no matter how right it felt to hold a violin in my hands, the nerves never got any easier.

Everyone was making their way back to their seats and the musicians were scrambling around me to get their instruments, a bottle of water, a piece of cheese, whatever they wanted. I peeked through the curtain hanging on the side of the stage to see just what kind of crowd I was going to be in front of in a few minutes.

The audience looked as any other did. Some were overly dressed, some under. A few men were in suits, a few in tuxes. I would never forget the time I played with the LA Phil and a man seated in one of the front rows wore shorts and a t-shirt. I almost started laughing while playing Bach's _Concerto for Two Violins_.

I looked around, trying to imagine everyone wearing a t-shirt and shorts. I had tried the underwear thing, but I once had a nightmare about appearing for a performance in only my underwear. Never again did I use that fantasy. I looked up in the boxes, trying to see who I'd have to shake hands with later. It was customary that the box holders came out to greet the musicians personally after the performance.

And then I saw her.

Sweet Jesus.

She was sitting next to a couple that was sharing one chair and she looked positively annoyed. She fidgeted, I could tell. She looked anxious or hurried or impatient. Maybe she wanted to get the show on the road just so she could leave. I was sure sitting next to the couple making out all evening did not make for a fun night out for her.

But was she ever gorgeous.

Her hair was up and it was just fine with me because I was given a perfect view of her neck and her collarbones. All I wanted to do was lick the skin I saw. Lick and bite. I wanted to leave a trail of marks all over her perfect creamy skin.

I had to step from the right and back to the left, slightly crossing my legs one over the other to temper the rising tent in my tux trousers. As it was, the lines and the way it was cut made me look ridiculous in the front anyway.

She looked over at the couple dry-humping each other next to her. Even from where I was, I saw a flush creep over her face. I suddenly imagined what it would be like to have her pressed against me, below me, naked, with the very same color covering her entire body.

Fuck.

I imagined her breathing and moaning into my ear, her sweaty skin moving against mine.

My pants got exponentially tighter.

I trained my attention on some of the older women in the front row, the ones that I thought I played only for them. And they always came to tell me after the show just how much they enjoyed me playing just for them. One day, with a few drinks in me, I planned to tell them in their over-sequenced outfits that I never played for them and I actually played because I was paid. Also because I'm a violinist and that's what I do.

The elderly people always got the front rows because they couldn't see well from the back, even with their bifocals. I stared at a woman probably old enough to be my great-grandmother and I felt myself deflating immediately. I adjusted myself as I looked over my shoulder with a careful eye. All the other musicians probably didn't even know I was in the corner, peeking out at the audience.

And because I must enjoy frustration and embarrassment, I looked up to the box again. She still sat there, still alone, still looking impatient, still fucking beautiful. In truth, she was beautiful and the "fucking" aspect of it made her seem vile. Well at least it did in my head. But when I analyzed it over the period of a few seconds, I realized that there really was no other way to describe her.

Because she wasn't simply beautiful. She was more than that. She was hot. But she wasn't hot in the commercial way. She was more than gorgeous, more than stunning, more than hot and any of those words put together. She was fucking beautiful. And fucking was definitely an activity that came to mind when I looked up at her.

I had to adjust the front of my trousers again and that's when I realized that she was wearing a lovely gown appropriate for the occasion. She was sitting in a box. She was probably used to cocktail parties, champagne, tuxes and cufflinks, and all the stuffy stuff that I couldn't stand. Her boyfriend—probably the son of the owner of the theater—was probably just going to step into the box and take her in his arms before proceeding to mack on her like the couple she was sitting next to.

Someone like her, someone so elegant and graceful would never want anything to do with me if I told her that I couldn't wait to get out of the tux and into some cheap cotton.

I stared up at her, the fantasies of her waiting naked for me after the show filling my mind, and still no boyfriend showed up. I wanted to bound up to her, rip her dress off and proceed to fuck her brains out on the banister. My violin could come too.

I wanted to finish my pieces and get back to my dressing room only to find her leaning against the wall, naked, with a fresh rose between her teeth. I wanted to see her run it down her body, tracing over achingly-tight nipples and fucking gorgeous curves.

I wanted to reach behind her, pull her hair down and see it spill around her shoulders, messy. I liked messy hair because I could play with it. And it would look messy after I finished sexing her. I didn't care how expensive the dress was, I wanted it off. Burned for all I cared. I wanted nothing between her and I but slithers of inches of air. And even that was too much.

Fuck.

I'd been on tour for too long and that meant that it had been too long since I'd gotten any. Symphonies were not exactly bursting with sweet young things that were ready and willing to worship me like a rockstar. They were filled with middle-aged women that would often ask me to take their daughters to dinner. I wasn't interested in dinner. I was interested in the girl in the blue dress, and I was definitely interested in taking her home with me tonight. Definitely.

I heard the heels of shiny shoes and heels hitting the wood floor on the stage and I realized that the intermission was over. Finally. But that meant the musicians were taking their places and I had to move. I looked up one last time to the fucking beautiful woman that would be my muse for the evening and she leaned over the banister. She fucking leaned over. She placed her arms on the red bar in front of her and bent, leaning close with that blush coming across her skin again. I was given a miraculous view of her chest. Fucking beautiful cleavage. I wanted to live there.

With only a few minutes before I had to be on stage myself, I ran to the bathroom to tune my… instrument.

* * *

BPOV

Finally.

After sitting through Brahms' _Allegro giocoso from Symphony No.4 in E minor, Op. 98_, it was show time. I didn't understand why Mr. Soloist Extraordinaire couldn't have played in the Brahms piece. Every violin within a ten mile radius must have been going at it.

Nonetheless, the time had come and I was bouncing in my seat.

"Bella, calm down," Alice instructed with a chuckle.

I didn't listen and leaned over the banister, not caring if the people below me didn't approve. I was already in the best seat of the house, but I wanted to make sure I saw Mr. Soloist as closely as possible.

The musicians turned pages, the conductor waved his arms, music stands screeched on the wood floor, and I was ready to scream. Where the hell was he!

The lights dimmed and the stage went black. I was about to jump out of the box and onto the stage. I didn't care who I had to kill, strangle, whatever, I was going to see Mr. Soloist Extraordinaire. After sitting through hours of stringy music, I was getting my reward. Even if it meant he was gay, or worse—married, I didn't care. I wanted to see him, damn it!

"Alice, what the hell is going on?" She laughed in response and I heard the sound of her kissing Jasper's cheek. It also sounded like they were whispering about me.

I looked around in the blackness of the theater. From the lights coming from the floor in the aisles, I could tell that people were moving on the stage, violin bows going up and down, the conductor taking his place on the small black box, and I heard footsteps walking across the stage.

Then I heard it and it only intensified the need I felt.

"Ladies and gentlemen, The Chicago Symphony Orchestra is proud to present the guest soloist for the evening, Edward Cullen."

I looked around into the empty blackness above me for some sort of source of the sound. It obviously was the loudspeakers and not someone down on the stage announcing him. But it didn't matter if Miley Cyrus' smoker voice announced him. All that mattered was that he was on stage.

I scanned the shadows on the stage, searching for the one that could belong to him. His fucking beautiful picture had a fucking beautiful face and that fucking beautiful face had to belong to a fucking beautiful body. It had to.

Then, finally, in the strange backward cast of light, I saw a figure, holding what appeared to be a violin, walking on from the left side of the stage and stopped close to the conductor's black box. It was him, Mr. Soloist Extraordinaire. It had to be.

I nearly jumped out of the box and onto the stage. That's probably why I suddenly felt Jasper's hand take hold of my wrist. He pulled me back into my chair like a proper lady. In a way, I'm glad he did because had I jumped, I would have landed like a pancake on top of a lot of poor and innocent people. And I was sure that getting flattened by blue satin was not the way they wanted to go.

The lights went up. Or on, or whatever it is lights do.

My heart almost flew through my chest and my breathing stopped. There, down in front of me, was the moment of glory. It was the moment that I first laid eyes on Mr. Soloist Extraordinaire.

Rather, his ass.

Just when I was sure to see the fucking beautiful face that I'd seen in the program, the one that would be going under my pillow for those lonely moments, I was instead greeted with his back. And backside. Even though he was unfortunately wearing a penguin outfit like all the other guys on stage, his ass was perfect from where I could see. His ass was covered in the black fabric of his monkey suit and I still dreamed of tearing them off with my teeth and running my tongue over the flesh behind it.

And then he turned around.

For the first time all evening, I was looking at the real Mr. Fucking Beautiful. And he was fucking beautiful. And his eyes were even more fucking beautiful than fucking beautiful. And the motherfucker looked up into my box, straight at me. And he held it, like a stare. He was staring at me.

He lifted his violin to his chin, his eyes still looking up at me, his bow taking position on the strings, and I swear I almost screamed and told him that he could have me right there. In front of all those people, he could have had me. If it hadn't been for Jasper tightening his grip on my wrist, I probably would have.

His eyes didn't leave mine and just as I saw the conductor do the hugging motion again out of the corner of my eye, he winked at me. That little cue stick did a little dance and the conductor gave the orchestra an "okay" signal.

The fucker—A.K.A Mr. Fucking Beautiful Soloist Extraordinaire—winked at me!

And then an explosion went off.

All except for the explosion, that is. It just felt like an explosion to me. And in my panties.

Mr. Fucking Beautiful dragged his bow down the strings slowly, extremely slowly. He didn't stop looking at me as he stroked his bow on his strings. If I wasn't constantly imagining what it would be like to have him stroke pieces of my body in the same way, I would have noticed how unbelievably beautiful he was playing. And I suppose somewhere, in the very back of my mind, the parts that weren't laden with perverted thoughts, the beauty of the music registered.

It was like crying, but in a beautiful way. As if Romeo himself was yearning for his beloved Juliet. And he was screaming in agony, beautiful agony.

Mr. Fucking Beautiful was soon joined with clarinets before he had another little piece all to himself. His fingers were magic, moving over the strings like they were feasting. I just kept thinking about ways that I could use magic fingers like his. Screw my spirit fingers. I wanted his magic fingers. And I wanted them all over me.

His eyes didn't leave mine still and I was silently telling him all the way he could fuck me after the show. Hell, he could even have me with the penguin suit on. I didn't care. As long as he played me like he played his violin, I'd do whatever he wanted.

The orchestra joined him after that, all of the musicians moved behind him for a few seconds and I didn't care about them at all. I stared at him and with another wink, he finally broke eye contact and looked down to the violin in his hand.

_O, that I were a glove upon that hand._

_Only I didn't want to be a glove. I wanted to be that violin, the instrument that he looked at with such passion, the instrument tucked under his chin._

_He moved his body up and down, back and forth, as he dragged the bow over the strings. I didn't know what to keep my eyes on the most—his fingers, his body, his bow, or his face. His face looked as if it were in a perpetual state of orgasm (at least I could hope it looked as beautiful when he came), and his body moved with such a powerful grace that I was beginning to squirm uncomfortably in my seat at the thought._

_Jasper tightened his fingers around my wrist and I had to mentally check myself to make sure that I didn't make a mess of the ball gown Alice had bought for me._

_Mr. Soloist's body moved with his bow, as if they were connected. He was making the most extraordinary and passionate love to his violin and I was suddenly incredibly jealous of the piece of wood. His left foot came out to support him as he moved, his toe sticking up as he rocked back and forth with the notes._

_Jesus, he was beautiful._

_His fingers moved perfectly over the strings and I could only think of them under my dress, stroking and playing me to his every whim, making me sing like he made his violin make music. And sing for him I definitely would. That is, if singing compared to crying out in ecstasy._

His fingers shook on the strings, playing them slowly, and the expression on his face was gorgeous. As if he was in the most wonderful agony, like an orgasm. He sucked in his lip and he played the following quick notes, his fingers moving over the strings quicker and quicker. His bow moved up and down.

I started fantasizing that I was the violin and he was the bow. He moved above me up and down, over and over and over again. Sometimes slow, sometimes fast, and the music that came from below me couldn't be helped. I squirmed in my seat again and I was desperate for some kind of focus. But all I could think about was the beautiful man on stage and how much I wanted him to play me.

Horns and flutes came in, a little quiet at first, then a little louder, and his violin grew softer and softer. Almost as if it were dying. And like a miracle, it grew louder. Slowly, it was louder and louder. The notes light and airy and alive. As if he'd killed it with climax and was reviving it with his magic fingers. Faster he played and his head jerked as his body moved quickly. He was beginning to sweat under the lights on stage. I wanted to lick it off.

The song began dying, the stringy sounds coming from Mr. Fucking Beautiful down below growing softer and softer. The conductor moved his hands up and down a little and everyone's playing grew quiet. His hands went out into a flattening position and that was it. Silence. I was suddenly sad that it was over. A little longer and I would have had a violin-induced orgasm, I was sure of it.

Applause suddenly broke out, damn near scaring me out of my dreamland full of magic fingers and violin bows. Everyone clapped and I heard a few cheers from the back. My eyes tightened as I scanned back there, wondering if any of the cheers were coming from women hoping to land Mr. Soloist Extraordinaire after the show. He. Was. Mine.

I looked down to the stage and I saw that Mr. Fucking Beautiful was bowing, his bow and violin in one hand, the other behind his back. He looked gracious and modest as he accepted the applause everyone gave him. I wanted to stand and scream, but at the same time, I didn't. I didn't want to stand for fear that my legs wouldn't work. I was in the middle of an impending orgasm when the song ended and I didn't want to test out any theories. Plus, I didn't want to be jumping off the balcony and embarrass the poor man.

Though, after the show, that was a whole different game. And I didn't care if I did embarrass him. I was going to throw myself at him, the consequences be damned. I would regret it for the rest of my life if I didn't at least try to bed him.

After another minute or so of applause, it finally died down. The conductor turned back around to face his orchestra and again, he brought his arms up in a dramatic fashion. He held them there, looking over his shoulder at Mr. Fucking Beautiful beside him. I wondered if he was also admiring the hot piece of ass, like I was. He had to have been. Even in those pants that made him look like he was trying to hide a hernia, I could tell his ass was hot.

The conductor did a little dance with his arms, flailing. Well, flailing gracefully. The little white stick flicked and pointed at a few musicians. But I wasn't really looking at him. I saw him moving out of the corner of my eye. I was looking—staring super hard—at Mr. Fucking Extraordinaire. His eyes were closed and he had a beautiful expression on his face. The kind I imagined he wore while he was receiving intense pleasure. Preferably from me. As flutes and violins started playing behind him, he swayed a little from side to side, along with the music.

More and more instruments came in, the big violins, and the super big violins, some dude patted the enormous drum with some marshmallow sticks, and the conductor was moving this way and that. But gracefully. Fucking Beautiful Soloist raised his bow and brought his violin up to his chin.

_Yes._

I waited patiently for him to start playing and I watched as his fingers took position on the strings. They were beautiful. The violin bows behind him were moving up and down faster and they looked like they had all been coordinated. I wondered if they went to some class and had to learn to move their bows in unison. The conductor's arms moved up and down quickly and the music reflected his speed. The music suddenly got softer and a little quieter. And then, Mr. Fucking Beautiful Soloist Extraordinaire started playing.

_Yes._

He dragged his bow over his strings, dramatically. His face twisted into an expression of pain and he slowly pushed and pulled his fingers over his bow in an expert fashion. His shoulder quivered as his arms moved. He pulled his bow down slowly, his fingers looked as though they were clenching on the strings on the fingerboard, vibrating intensely. The conductor kept waving his arms and then Mr. Soloist opened his eyes and turned up to me. Me.

His body leaned back and his right arm dragged across the strings in a strong pass, the notes finally picking up and turning into something light and airy. It was like he was reciting poetry to me. Well, with his violin, that is. With his eyes, he was fucking the shit out of me.

My breathing fell short and my bottom lip quivered as I felt another passing clench down below the many layers of taffeta.

His eyes stayed on me as he played for the next few seconds, a slight smirk pulled at the corner of his lips. Then the sharp notes started. Back and forth, up and down, up and down, sharp pulls. And then. Oh my God, and then. His fingers, those beautiful, talented, fucking fingers of his. They not only danced on the fingerboard, but they were running a marathon at lightning speed. If possible, breaking the sound barrier. It sounded like a hoard of bees was going to attack. But they could have stung me all they wanted.

The violins behind entered in his game, taking some of his spotlight. The bastards. Their bows moved in sync again and that's when I was sure that they went to some class to receive training for that kind of thing. But no one could possibly outshine the beauty of the soloist that was playing. He arched backwards as his bow went up, his foot pointing up straight in the air as he pulled the bow back down.

The next several minutes were a mixture of sharp up and down bow action coupled with some lightning fingers on the strings. Mr. Fucking Beautiful swayed with his music and he occasionally closed his eyes to revel in the notes he played. I clenched my legs as tightly as possible as I imagined his fingers playing on my flesh. Preferably down below rather than on my arm. His notes got tighter, higher, stronger, smaller, and I felt as though he were stretching me thin and teasing me. And all with music!

Hair fell in his face as he played and that was when I realized that he was sweating enough to wet his hair and make it fall into his eyes. I was suddenly imagining what he would look like straight out of the shower, towel need not apply. His bronzed hair flopped on his forehead as he moved and all I wanted to do was touch it. I wanted to run my hands through his hair and pull until he moaned.

His notes got even faster and even sharper. He bent low at each return, pulling his bow back up as he stood straight again. The violins behind him mimicked his own bow but I knew those pitiful musicians had nothing on Mr. Soloist Extraordinaire. They did have something on me, however. They were much closer and in touching distance of his ass. Bastards.

Then the music was slow. His bow dragged languorously across the strings, weeping into the silence of the auditorium. He closed his eyes tightly, his face scrunching up into the pre-orgasm face and it looked almost like he was biting his lip. I wanted to suck it out from behind his teeth and bite it for him.

The way he moved, with such passion, I was in love. And it goes without saying, definite lust. He was so smooth, so intense, so vibrant. He was such a turn on. Rawr. It was pure and simple, he was making love to that piece of wood. Sweet, sweet, and extremely hot, love. He was loving it like there was no tomorrow, like it was the last time he'd ever have sex. Never before had I wanted so desperately to be an inanimate object.

The conductor flailed his graceful hands and the white pointy stick. Up and down and it didn't really look like he was doing anything. There was no beat he was matching. I was positive that I could have made a better conductor at that point. Plus, I'd be in perfect position to whisk Mr. Fucking Beautiful offstage and ravish him.

The conductor looked like a kangaroo. His hands were up high and he kept bouncing his knees up and down like he was ready to pounce on the musicians in front of him. If he hurt my soloist, I'd kill him. I don't care what kind of animal music games he was playing, there would be no hurting of the beauty that was Mr. Fucking Beautiful. Unless he was tied to my bed and I was the one doing the hurting.

"Bella," Jasper whispered in my ear. Hesitantly, I ripped my gaze off Mr. Soloist Extraordinaire and turned to him. "Are you alright?" he asked.

I looked at him with a curious expression, unsure of what he was talking about. Sure I was fine. A little too much turned on and feeling like a dog in heat, but sure, I was fine.

"Yeah," I said, my eyes quickly going back to the man playing his violin below me. "Why?"

Jasper chuckled and patted my thigh. Had he been any other man besides Jasper and my best friend's boyfriend, I probably would have made him put his hand up my skirt. He turned back to Alice with another laugh and whispered something that sounded like I'd be fine… soon enough.

But, oh, Mr. Soloist was a commander. Truly. His fingers played those strings like no one's business and over and all around the notes did he go. Faster he went, and faster the other musicians around him played. They echoed his notes, following him, their bows matching his. Tight notes sounded tense and strung.

He was getting red in the face as he moved his arm quicker. For a few seconds, pieces of his music sounded like a Beethoven song that I'd heard a few times throughout my life. It was like he was building to something, something magnificent and beautiful. It was like he was licking me, teasing me, building to a perfect orgasm and letting the alarms build in my head. At least it sounded like it.

The tight notes got a little broader, opening up into a deeper sound. The musicians and the conductor followed him on his tirade on the violin. Their music bounced off his, reflecting and echoing in perfect harmony. I suppose that's why they were a professional symphony orchestra, after all.

His body, his perfect body, jerked back as he hit the sharp note. And he'd repeat the sequence, the other violins behind rushing just as quickly to get their notes in. The conductor flailed his hands some more, his wrists flicking this way and that, his little white stick pointed straight up. And just as Mr. Fucking Beautiful hit a hard note, it all stopped. The musicians behind him took over and he turned around to face them, dropping his violin to hold next to him. And it was fine with me because I got to stare at his ass. And dream of what I wanted to do to it.

He dug in his pocket and produced what looked like a tissue or something and I saw that he wiped his forehead with it. A piece of me was slightly saddened by his action because I wanted to lick it off and taste his skin and sweat. He watched the other musicians play their instruments and slowly turned back around. He looked up into my box and held the stare for a moment before he took his violin and placed it under his chin again. He closed his eyes again in preparation, allowing himself to feel the music, and almost in slow motion, he pulled his bow up and began to play.

He was marvelous; he was his own symphony. He conducted that bow with power and grace and an intensity that I'd never seen anywhere else. I knew almost nothing about classical music other than the fact that Beethoven was deaf and Mozart was a genius, but I knew that Mr. Fucking Beautiful was perfect in every note that he played.

The way his fingers moved in nothing but perfect speed made him almost sound like he was playing a piano rather than a violin. He danced with the violin, turning his shoulders back and forth, twisting his hips and bouncing his broad shoulders.

Once again, he was building to something. His music got faster, more desperate. And if my eyes didn't lie to me, he snapped a look up at me again. I damn near broke out in hives. Maybe I did. All I knew was that it felt like my skin was on fire and he only looked at me.

His face twisted into agonized and worried and pleasurable and wonderful and painfully orgasmic as he ascended to those last notes, those tedious, tight and broad notes. His bow moved quick, hard and spastic against the strings, the violin swooning in his arms. It wept with pleasure, screaming and sighing as a climax began. I leaned forward on the bar in front me again, my hands clenching around the golden bar.

He kept playing, those beautiful tight notes spilling from beneath his fingertips. And all of a sudden, as my fingers closed even tighter around the bar, the symphony behind him exploded with other violins and instruments that I wasn't paying attention to. The violin he played had finally reached its point of maximum pleasure and she groaned beautifully.

Mr. Fucking Beautiful's chest heaved and he looked exhausted and pleasantly spent. He turned back to face the musicians that were honoring his playing with their own and I could tell that he was buzzing with pleasure.

The conductor just about went crazy. His flailing arms were no longer graceful and he really was flailing them, tensely. His hands jerked, his arms pulled tightly and his head turned from side to side, up and down, and he was commanding them with that white stick that was bouncing and pointing in fast flicks.

And it wasn't over. My fingers were white on the banister and I think I stopped breathing as I watched the finale. Mr. Soloist Extraordinaire joined the conductor in going crazy. His bowed moved even faster over his violin and the poor girl must have still been sensitive. Every note seemed more profound and sharper than the last. All the musicians joined him, their violins and clarinets and trumpets no match for his playing. The violin was screaming in ecstasy beneath his fingers, and he played her still, wanting to get the last climax out of her.

Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.

I leaned over the banister again, farther, my fingers tightening, my breath stopping, my brows tensing, my legs pressing close.

The conductor had lost his mind. Not only was he flailing like a madman, he was jumping, twisting, pulling his hands up in fist pumps, doing almost everything except a backward flip.

And then, with a slow expert pull on his beautiful violin with his beautiful talented fingers, Mr. Fucking Beautiful Soloist Extraordinaire gave the instrument her release and she whined beautifully into the auditorium. My shaking chest let out a low moan and my skin exploded into goose bumps and flashes of red.

His bow was still up, pointing directly up to heaven. As he brought his arm down, the audience broke out in applause, whistles, and screams. He turned to face them all, soaking in the attention before taking a bow. The conductor stepped off his little black box and held his arm out to show the audience the huge symphony hiding behind him.

But I only had eyes for Mr. Fucking Beautiful. He wore a thankful smile, his chest still moving rapidly. He looked up at me for a second and if I didn't know any better, he pursed his lips and puckered and blew. The fucker blew me a silent kiss. He turned back to the audience, bowing again before also giving the musicians behind their due.

That's when I realized that everyone, including Alice and Jasper, was standing and offering a standing ovation and their honorable applause to the symphony and Mr. Soloist Extraordinaire. I shot to my feet, my hands clapping ecstatically. And I couldn't help myself. In my excitement, in my complete and utter lack of proper behavior, I shouted, "OW!"

* * *

EPOV

My arm felt like it was going to die. It felt like it was going to shrivel up and fall on the stage. But I had to keep going. For the paycheck I was getting. For the orchestra behind me. For the conductor in front of me. For the girl above me.

I ignored the sore pain in my shoulder and I continued to move my bow over my violin. No matter how many times I played, or how many hours I practiced, eventually, the speed and the intensity got to my arm. Thank gods of violinists everywhere that I wasn't playing more than the two songs.

I played and imagined that the girl in the box in the blue dress was watching. I hoped she was watching as closely as I wanted to play for her. Screw the other people in the theater. I was playing for her. I wanted her to hear me and know that every note was dedicated to her.

I looked up to her again, my eyes locking on hers for a brief instant before I looked back down at my violin. The last few notes were fast and hard and tight and sharp. I let them flow through the violin and out into the theater. I hoped the girl that was sitting in the box without a partner to join her would know just how much those notes were for her.

I played fast, coordinating my fingers as best I could, I pulled the bow down and up and mentally encouraged myself not to give up. Finally, I hit the last chord and let my bow sing it out as the note echoed around me in the perfect silence. I held my bow up as I finally allowed myself to come down. My chest was shaking, my heart was pounding, I was covered in sweat, and I was elated. It was like coming off a high after I finished playing, every time.

The applause crashed over my ears and I was always incredibly thankful. I smiled at them and bowed. I couldn't wait any longer and I had to look up at the girl in the box who had captivated my attention the entire evening. She was glorious. Her skin was pinker than before and the color was calling to me. Her shoulders were begging to be touched by me. Without a second's thought, I sent her a small kiss—small enough that I hoped no one else would notice—a thank you for allowing me the privilege to play for her and being my muse. I was afraid of her reaction, afraid that she would look at me with disgust, so I tore my eyes away from her and back to the audience, smiling and bowing some more. I turned and let the rest of the musicians get their praise as well.

The applause continued and was accompanied by a few whistles and "bravo"s. I looked at all the old ladies and sent them all smiles of thanks, hoping that I wouldn't have to reject any offers to be one of their boytoys.

"OW!" I heard and I looked up immediately. The sound had come from the box that I'd been looking into all night. I wanted to laugh before I realized who it had come from.

The girl in the dark blue dress was standing, her thighs against the banister in front her, and she was clapping extremely hard. I was sure that her palms were going to get raw because of it. And I hoped she'd allow me to kiss them better. Or lick them better. Or just lick her.

The couple that had been sharing a seat next to her, the ones that couldn't dislodge their tongues from each other's mouths, were standing and clapping as well. Though they didn't do it with as much gusto as the girl in the blue dress. And the man standing next to her looked familiar, as did the dark-haired pixie girl standing next to him. I remembered seeing them at my sister's wedding, though I couldn't remember why. It didn't matter. I'd use it to my advantage to introduce myself to her the girl at their side.

The applause died down after a few minutes and truth be told, I was getting really tired of smiling and bowing. It was nice and all, but really, I wanted out of the tux and into the girl in the box. Almost as if reading my mind, the lights on the stage dimmed and we were all free to leave.

I ran off the stage, not caring if I scuffed the wood. That's what janitors were for. They could easily toe the marks off; I had much more important business to attend to. And she was wearing a blue dress that I hoped to have off by the end of the night.

* * *

BPOV

The lights dimmed on the stage and it went dark. Right away, any lingering applause was gone and I heard regular conversations and talking starting up below me. But none of it mattered. All that mattered had just walked off stage.

"Jas," I said quickly, turning to him and unlocking his mouth from Alice's. "I want to meet him."

He smirked and nodded. "I know." He turned back to kiss Alice again and I almost took off my shoe and plunged the heel into his ear.

"NOW!"

Alice broke the kiss and she turned to me laughing. "Got you all hot and bothered or something, huh?"

I nodded frantically. "Or something." I waved to the curtain behind us. "Now can we go?"

Alice and Jasper sighed and agreed. We all walked out of the box and headed down to the main floor where everyone else was congregating. I noticed more than just a few women were wearing regular dresses and some were wearing dress pants and nice shirts. I turned around and smacked Alice's shoulder.

"What was that for?" she asked as we descended the last few stairs.

"For making me wear this, when I could be wearing that!" I said, gesturing at the women around us.

Alice chuckled and looked as if she was still bouncing inside. I'd never understand her constant happiness. But I was furious. I'd never let her dress me, no matter how much she begged or offered to pay. There was no reason why I had to look like I was going to a ball at the White House and other women got to look normal.

"I hate you," I sneered at her.

"Uh, Bella," Jasper said, gently taking my arm and turning me around. "There's someone I think you should meet."

I turned, the scowl I was giving Alice still on my face. And then it magically melted when my eyes focused. I would have fainted if my brain were still working properly.

"Edward, this is my friend, Bella. Bella, I believe you recognize Edward from his performance."

His eyes were green.

Fucking beautiful green.

Like grass. Like moss. Like emeralds. Like dark jade. Like fresh-picked mint.

"Bella?" Alice asked, nudging me in the back with her elbow.

I blinked quickly, refocusing and recovering. "Hi," the Mr. Fucking Beautiful whispered. Before I knew what was going on, he'd grabbed my hand and gently pulled it up to his lips, laying a kiss there. "Nice to meet you." I was somehow able to register the fact that his hands were soft and nothing like what I thought a violin player's hands to be. They were perfect and his fingers were long and thin.

Oh Christ.

Alice nudged me in the back again and I made a mental note to hit her with a spatula or some other equally painful cooking object later. Still, I also made sure to thank her later because I was able to think straight once again.

"Hi," I said, watching him stand up fully and releasing my hand gently. He was taller than he looked on stage, several inches taller than me.

I stared at him, the room around me forgotten. I no longer cared about the enormous dress that Alice had made me wear. I no longer cared about spatulas and other objects I'd be hitting her with. I no longer cared about the pants that other women got to wear. I didn't even care about the heels that were killing my feet. His eyes were the most fucking beautiful green I'd ever seen and I was completely lost in them.

"You…," I breathed softly, my amazement somehow making my brain stop. Finding my breath again, I was able to speak coherently. "You were amazing." A smirk pulled at the right side of his mouth and his eyes glowed, the color darkened. "Really… really amazing."

Jasper cleared his throat next to me. I could tell out of the corner of my eye that he was looking from me to Edward and back again. But I couldn't tear my eyes away from the beautiful man in front of me. "Uh…," he said, still looking between us. "Alice, would you like something to drink?"

Her elbow nudged the middle of my spine again. "Perfect," she said in her squee voice. And they bounced away together. I hoped that they decided to go to France for champagne and squeeze the grapes with their feet.

They were gone and everything around me melted into only him. He took a step closer to me, his scent wrapping around me like a heady and hot blanket. He smelled of man skin and sweat and cologne and sophisticated primping.

"Bella," he said softly, taking yet another step closer to me. "Isabella."

I'd never allowed any other person by my grandmother to call me that. But somehow, it was okay when he said it. It was laced with sex. And I wanted to hear him sigh my given name over and over.

My eyes followed his as he looked down and moved his arm up. The tip of his middle finger made contact with my shoulder and he dragged it down my arm, slowly. My skin felt like it was on fire. Glorious fire. I wanted to moan, but I didn't want him to know that I had been on the cusp of orgasm since first seeing his picture. So I tried to hold it in when he licked his lips. I tried and failed. As I spoke, I squeaked.

"Did you enjoy the show?" he asked when his fingertip held the point of mine for a second.

"It was great."

He shrugged and licked his lips slowly. His eyes danced and I could tell that he was weighing his words in his head.

"It was alright," he said, degrading himself. "I couldn't concentrate as much as I wanted. Thanks to you."

My brow furrowed in confusion and the smirk pulled his lip up again. His tongue peeked through his lips and I had to fight every urge that was screaming inside of me that wanted to suck on it.

"You see…," he said, his breath cascading all over my face, "All I thought about was you."

His finger traced back up my arm and I almost collapsed into his arms. His fingers were well-trained, indeed.

"You—you play beautifully," I said dumbly. Half talking about his playing, half talking about his fingers on my skin. Mostly about his fingers on my skin.

"For you," he said. His hand continued up past my shoulder, over my neck, and finally, up to cup my face. "You were my muse."

His thumb glided over my bottom lip and I couldn't help myself, I licked him. He closed his eyes for a tiny instant, swallowing roughly. If I didn't know better, he was fighting the same desperate urge I was feeling to jump on him.

His thumb moved over my lip, the moisture from my tongue wetting it and his finger moved easier. His very touch was making me dizzy. Still unable to contain myself, I pulled his thumb into my mouth and between my teeth. I held his finger there and pulled lightly. Again, his eyes closed and he swallowed something thick in his throat.

His eyes were locked with mine, those beautiful green eyes, and he was coming closer to me, his lips almost within reach. I almost died.

"Edward, is that you?"

Crap.

His finger was out of my mouth and he stepped away quicker than I could possibly comprehend. He turned around and I almost fell, the throbbing between my legs near unbearable. That was only the 387302nd time that he'd almost given me an orgasm within three hours.

Some old lady in silver sequence had stolen him away and complimented him on his playing and his beautiful music. I stood where I was, wondering if he'd come back to me when she was done attempting to molest him. As long as her hands were on top of his tux, I didn't have a problem. All I knew was that my hands would certainly be under it some time that evening.

He looked over his shoulder as another old lady took his attention and ushered him away to another little group. She introduced him around and he smiled graciously and tipped his head. He was so fucking beautiful. I still couldn't believe that I'd just had his finger in my mouth, against my tongue, between my teeth, on my lip. He tasted wonderful. Like perfect skin. I couldn't wait to taste every other part of him.

I watched him move around the room and talk to his fans. He shook a few of their hands, laughed a few of their jokes, and smiled like a gentleman. But he didn't stick his thumb in any other woman's mouth and that made me happy. Still, watching him was like asking an alcoholic to restrain from open bottles.

He glanced at me a few times as he changed groups and shook more hands. I stared at him, the same fire I saw in his eyes undoubtedly in mine. My hand was still burning from where he'd kissed me. I wanted him to do it again, all over my body. I wanted his hands and lips to cover me, douse me until I suffocated. I was still in shock over the brilliant color of his eyes. I couldn't wait to see the rest of him, and the mere thoughts were making me tingle and twitch in places I couldn't wait of having his skilled hands.

I was going crazy as my eyes followed him around the crowded room. A few old ladies got too touchy for my taste, and a few younger and attractive women got too close. One blond chick with really long eyelashes leaned too close over her champagne glass and dipped her head as if to smell him. I almost ran over to gauge her eyes out but Jasper stopped me.

"Easy, killer," he instructed, his hand taking its familiar place on my wrist.

"Fuck," I moaned. "I thought you went to France."

He tilted his head and lifted a brow. "What?"

Alice giggled as she drank her champagne. "Didn't think you'd like the symphony so much, huh, Bella?" She was bouncing and hanging onto Jasper's arm. The man deserved a medal made of gold and uranium.

"How long do you think they'll be?" I asked, gesturing at Mr. Fucking Beautiful's geriatric crowd of loyal supporters.

Jasper shrugged and ran a hand through his shaggy blond hair. "Who knows? An hour or so?"

An hour? A fucking hour! That was not going to fly with me.

I would go out of my mind if I had to stand around in the stupid heels Alice made me wear and not jump the sexiest man I'd ever seen. If I had to see his talented fingers wrap around another woman's hand rather than watch them do things to me, I'd scream. I'd waited three hours already and I wasn't about to wait one more.

My eyes scanned the room and I desperately looked for any kind of in that I could find. A few other members of the orchestra had joined the masses and they were also shaking hands and smiling like Mr. Fucking Beautiful. At the far end of the room, a few guys in pretty brown uniforms and Bluetooth earpieces carried bundles of bouquets off and out of sight.

"Where are they going?" I asked to no one in particular.

Jasper sipped his champagne. "Dressing rooms, I s'pose. Glamorous life of a musician."

I stared after the delivery men and suddenly wished that I looked like the unshaven, burly man type. I quickly discounted that fact because I was sure that unshaven, burly man types in a woman was not the type that had distracted my Soloist Extraordinaire during the performance.

Despite the fact that I was extremely horny and angry at a lot of old women, I couldn't help but smile like a little girl when I remembered what he'd said. He said that I had distracted him while he played. He was thinking of me while he played. Maybe he was playing his violin in ways that I wanted him to play me.

I wondered what he thought about. And why? I was dressed like Prom Barbie and nothing at all like what I'd wanted him to think of me as. Of course, with the activities I had in mind for us, clothes wouldn't matter.

"Alice!" I said quickly, pulling her to my side.

She stared at me with wide and excited eyes, waiting for me to continue. In truth, my wide and excited stare had a little confusion mixed in because I wasn't entirely sure why I'd just pulled her to me. I stared at her, hoping that lightning would hit my brain and make me a functioning human being. Ever since Mr. Fucking Beautiful from across the room had kissed my hand and almost fucked my mouth with his thumb, my thinking abilities were on low speed.

"Uhh…," I stuttered, searching my mind for some kind of plan. A reason would have been good, too.

I saw another burly scruff man walk down the hallway with a huge arrangement of flowers and bows. In the back of my mind, I made a note of the fact that the dressing rooms must have looked like a funeral parlor.

"Yeah," I said, some kind of sense coming down on me. Or perhaps not. It made some kind of sense in my lust-fogged brain. "You're coming with me."

I didn't allow Alice any time to refuse and dragged her to the doors, not even looking back at Mr. Fucking Beautiful. Jasper followed close behind us as we got outside and into the Chicago night. I didn't care that I was wearing a prom dress and heels I could barely walk in. I was on a mission.

* * *

EPOV

She left. I couldn't believe she left.

I could see that she was heading for the doors and I was hoping—as I didn't pay attention to Mrs. Darin's story of her latest acquisition of fifteenth century Italian violin—that she would turn around and jump me in the middle of all the proper fans.

But she didn't turn around. She didn't run to me. She didn't maul me in front of hundreds of people. She left and she didn't even turn around to look at me one last time.

My mind was on fire. I had never been so attracted to someone before in my life. And just by looking at her. I knew from the moment I saw her that I had to have her. I had to have her against me. I had to have her below me. I had to have her screaming my name. I had to have sweaty and sated. I had to have her over and over again.

If it hadn't been for the damned loafers I was made to wear, and the fact that my manager would castrate me, I would have run after her. I didn't care if I had to pull her into a dark alley and take her against a dumpster. The mere thought of hot sex in an alley with the fucking beautiful Isabella cramped the space in my crotch area.

"So where are you playing next?" Mrs. Darin asked me.

I turned back to her, depressed that my vision of fuck-hot beautiful temptress had morphed into old and not-hot over-sequinced fanwoman.

For some reason, thinking on her question got me to realize that the guy that had introduced me to what was sure to be the fuck of the century looked familiar. He also seemed to know me as he addressed me casually by my first name. I scrambled through my brain and memorized sheets of music. I knew that I'd seen him in a suit before, and the pixie girl in the black dress had been with him as well. I had played at a lot of shows, and they could have been at any one of them.

_Damn it!_

But, even if I had met the curly-haired dude before, he wouldn't have addressed me like we were buds.

There was something about his face that reminded me of Rose's husband. They had the same nose. At least I think so. Maybe.

That's when I realized it. I'd seen him at my sister's wedding a few months before. He was the Best Man, too. So he was technically my brother-in-law-in-law. We were family. He would surely give me Fucking Beautiful Isabella's number when I asked. And I would definitely ask. Of course, I'd have to call my sister and speak to her lumberjack husband before I asked the blonde dude. It was going to take a lot of phone skills. And with the impending possibility of getting Fucking Beautiful Isabella's number before the night was over, and hopefully getting her into my bed as well, I was no longer interested in the praise of Mrs. Darin or any of her compatriots.

I put my hand up and interrupted her delightful story about her great-grandfather playing his violin in the concentration camps during World War II to amuse the guards. Somehow, she thought it a great story that would surely tie her to me forever now that we were connected by Paganini.

"Um, would you excuse me?" I asked my politest voice. I didn't wait for her answer and quickly walked away.

I didn't allow anyone else the opportunity to stop me as I made my way back to my dressing room. A guy in a brown uniform handed me a bundle of flowers that turned out weren't even for me; they were for the conductor. I unlocked the door to my dressing room and had to squeeze against the wall as a few clarinet players walked past me. And then, holy shit.

My room was covered in flowers. Not even covered. I could barely see the walls. I would definitely have to have my agent start announcing that flowers were unnecessary. Money was much more useful. So were gorgeous girls with beautiful cleavage in dark blue dresses. I'd take one of her over the thousands of roses and lilies.

I scrambled to find my phone that was hidden under a few small bouquets. I called Rose immediately, not caring that she lived in New York and it was later there. This was important and I didn't care if I had to wake up the president, I was going to get Isabella's number if it was the last thing I did.

"Christ, what do you want, Edward?" her groggy voice said on the other end.

I dumped a few of the bouquets in the trash bin next to the vanity. "Let me talk to Emmett," I said quickly, not even bothering with pleasantries. Besides, it's not like Rose and I were the closest sibling relationship on the planet.

I heard her yawn and stretch before she answered. "What the hell do you want?"

"Let me talk to Emmett."

She sighed and cursed under her breath. "Listen, brother dear," she began. I cringed because I hated when she called me that. "I don't give a shit if you are a little violin diva. You want to talk to my husband, you're gonna ask me nicely."

I pulled the bowtie from around my neck so it was a little black string hanging out from my collar. I could tell she was waiting on the other side, but she was my older sister so it was my god-given right to be obnoxious to her.

"Goodnight, Edward."

_Fuck._

"No, no, no," I pleaded. "Don't hang up. It's important."

She waited again and I could almost hear the smug smile spreading on her face. I swear. If she wasn't my sister, I might think she was the biggest bitch in the world. Scratch that. She was my sister and I did think she was the biggest bitch in the world.

"Ahem," she said, still waiting.

I huffed. "Let me talk to Emmett," I repeated. "_Please_." It almost hurt to ask her politely.

She laughed like she used to when she put me in a headlock in my younger years. Until she married Emmett, I could have sworn her taste ran towards women. Then again, it could have been my deep-seated desire to finally have something in common with my sister. Nope. She was just a manly bitch.

"Em, babe," I heard her say far away from the phone. "My brother would like to speak to you."

He snorted and I could tell that he was definitely still sleeping. I would have laughed if I wasn't getting more and more anxious with each passing minute. Every second that Rose spent making me be polite and being sweet to her husband, was another second that Isabella was getting farther away from me.

"What the fuck does he want?" he asked sleepily.

"Emmett!" I yelled into the phone, hoping it would be loud enough that he'd hear and wake up.

Emmett snorted again. "Tell him to call my office anytime from eight to five."

Rose got back on the phone, a laugh lacing her voice. "Sorry, bro, no can do."

I punched a rose and red petals went flying across the carpeted floor. "Christ, Rose! I just need Jasper's number. That's all!"

Rose grumbled, cursing under her breath again. "Jasper? Em's brother?"

"Huh? What about Jaz?" I heard Emmett say farther away than Rose.

"Just give me his number, Rose!"

I heard her scrambling in what I assumed to be a phonebook from her nightstand when I heard Emmett make comments about how my violin playing made sense with my newfound sexuality. Then I heard him get angry at the thought that I would jump his brother. Sometimes, I really had absolutely no idea how he became a lawyer and managed to pass the bar. Then again, Fred Phelps passed it once upon a time. Clearly, it's made for lunatics.

Rose gave me the number and I scribbled it down on the back of a card from a bouquet. As I wrote down the last number, I didn't even bother saying anything else and was ready to hang up when I heard Rose scream "You're welcome, asshole!"

As soon as I pressed the red button to cut Rose off, I began dialing Jasper's number. I couldn't sit because I was anxious. I guessed that Isabella would still be with him and I hoped I could bypass having to ask for her number and just speak to her directly.

The ringing on the other end of the phone seemed to go on and on. I was comforted somewhat to know that his phone wasn't off, and he wasn't ignoring an unknown number. On what felt like the sixtieth ring, I was ready to hang up and dial again. I didn't care how many times I blew up his phone, I was going to talk to Isabella and I would, goddamnit, have her somehow.

"Hello?" I finally heard.

I jumped out of my chair and almost ran for the door in my relief that he had answered.

"Jasper? This is Edward Cullen," I said quickly, beginning to pace.

"Huh…," he said.

I paced and grabbed a small bouquet with my free hand and held it up high over my head. I wasn't sure why. Maybe I wanted to throw it to the floor and step on it in my frustration. Maybe I felt that it conducted some kind of lucky power from the gods. No idea.

"Listen," I began, suddenly nervous. "I just wanted to… uh… thank you for coming to the show tonight. I appreciate it." I rolled my eyes at myself and hit myself in the head with the flowers. A few petals fell on my shoulders.

"Sure…," he said slowly. "Our pleasure."

He mentioned pleasure and my mind went only to the fucking gorgeous woman in the blue gown. I could only think about tearing through it with my teeth.

I heard a whisper on Jasper's end and it sounded vaguely like a female voice asking who was on the phone. Adrenaline pulsed through me when I wondered if it could be Isabella. Sadly, when Jasper said my name, I heard a loud shriek and I knew it must have been the dark-haired pixie girl that was with my brother-in-law-in-law.

"Um…," I began again. I suddenly felt as if I were back in sixth grade when I'd called Jessica Stanley and as my luck would have it, I got her father and had to ask to speak to her. Rather than giving the phone to his daughter like a normal person, he interrogated me and wanted to know why a male was calling his house.

I closed my eyes and spilled the words quickly before I lost my nerve. "Listen, the reason I'm calling is because I was wondering, can I speak to Isabella please?"

I heard silence on the other end of the phone and something that sounded a lot like what I assumed to be a muffled scream. I attributed it to the dark-haired girl that looked much too enthusiastic to be normal. I quickly concluded that she was dosed with happy pills. Lots of happy pills.

"Hello?" I asked, wincing.

"Oh," Jasper said slowly. It was amazing. His girlfriend was hopped up on uppers and he sounded as if he'd smoked six blunts. "Uh… she's not here. Sorry."

"Fuck!" I said into the phone, immediately regretting it. I was no longer painted as the smooth and refined violinist that I had everyone thinking I was. "Oh, um, sorry! Sorry! I just, uh… Listen, I know this is going to sound really strange, and I don't want you to think I'm some crazed psycho. But I really need you to do me a favor. Really. Please," I begged.

I was almost positive that Jasper had hung up on me when I didn't hear anything in return. After what felt like five minutes, he breathed and asked what I wanted.

"I need Isabella's number. Please!"

* * *

BPOV

I hate flowers.

I sneezed as I ran back the few blocks. My ankles were threatening to collapse as I somehow managed to get the heel of my shoes in every crack in the sidewalk. I almost stopped to take them off and throw them into the street, but that would have taken time. And that was something I didn't have.

Chicago being the fucking Windy City and all was graced with never not having wind. And because of that, wind blew pollen from the flowers in my arms up into my nose. Immediately, I sneezed all over them and almost fell flat on my face as I ran—or walked as fast as I could in heels—back to the Symphony.

Thankfully, my allergies were not as bad as some. My face didn't blow up and my eyes didn't water to the point that it looked like I was crying worse than cutting the bitterest fucking onion. But I sneezed. A lot.

Finally, when I reached the front doors of the theater, a few people looked at me strangely, but I ran past them, sneezing as I went.

"Excuse me!" I shouted, running into the grand room where the audience was congregated with a few sporadic members of the Symphony.

I looked around, ignoring the eyes on me, searching for the moss-colored eyes and the fuck-hot hair. He was no where to be seen. I probably looked like a madwoman and was sure that Alice's carefully-placed pins were no longer carefully-placed. I probably had hair flying everywhere. And even though it was a warm night in Chicago, the wind had definitely left some red marks on my cheeks from running in it.

I spotted the overly-sequinced lady that he'd been talking to before I left and scrambled over to her. She looked frightened and was probably afraid that I was about to ram into her like Brian Urlacher. Her eyes got big and she seemed to lean backwards as I approached.

"Um," I said out of breath. "Where did he go? Edward Cullen. Did you see where he went?" I sneezed.

In the back of my mind, I was afraid that I'd give the poor woman a heart attack. She looked old enough for it. But I just stared at her with my urgent expression and leaned closer to her, hoping that she understood how desperate I was at the moment.

It looked like she recovered after she realized that I wasn't going to kill her, or run her down on turf and leave her for dead. Hesitantly, she lifted her arm and gestured out to the right without breaking eye contact with me. I looked over and realized that it was the hallway where all the brown-uniformed men were headed. Without thinking, I ran that way, almost spinning the overly-sequinced mademoiselle.

Just as I turned the corner and slid against the farthest wall, my shoes definitely leaving skid marks on the shiny floor, I screamed when I felt something buzz in my chest. For a split second, I honestly thought that a security guard had spotted me, mistaken me for a crazed lunatic and tasered me. I was ready. My world was going black and I knew that when I hit the shiny floor I'd just skidded all over, I was done for. They'd cart me off to some looney bin and I'd never see Mr. Fucking Beautiful or his amazing fingers again.

The buzzing shook me again and I yelped. I didn't understand. One taser should have been enough. I wasn't exactly the biggest girl in the world. And the buzzing made me scream again.

_What the fuck!_

I looked down at my chest, ready to see taser strings sticking into my skin, and I saw my phone squished between my boobs. At least the dress was good for something; it gave me phenomenal cleavage and the perfect place to stick my cell phone.

It was probably Alice trying to talk me out of what I was about to do. As I'd dragged her and Jasper out of the theater earlier to go get the flowers that would surely get me into Soloist Extraordinaire's dressing room, she tried to convince me that I shouldn't do it. She told me that it was a much better idea to accost him during regular daytime hours when he wasn't in an ugly penguin suit, and preferably after he'd showered because he was covered in sweat after his performance.

I didn't care about any of that. The penguin suit could come off. Actually, it would come off. Nighttime made everything more fun and exciting. And the sweat, while I didn't share it with her for fear of freaking her silly dispositions out, was dying to be licked by my tongue.

I ran down the little hallway, checking each door as I passed, hoping for some kind of clue as to the one I was looking for. A man in a black suit with an MIB headset in his ear came towards me and put his hand up to stop me from running.

"Ma'am, excuse me? Can I help you with something?"

_Shit._

"Um…," I breathed hard, half from fearing that I was about to be tasered to death, and half from running like my life depended on it. "I, uh…" I paused, trying to collect my breath. "I'm delivering these," I managed to get out.

At that second, my phone buzzed in my boobs again and I yelped. The MIB man just looked at me with a cocked eyebrow, probably determining whether or not to call the cops and have me taken to the psych ward at County.

The buzzing continued and I did my best to ignore it. I had to clench my teeth and pretend that the vibrating noise in my chest was actually not there. The MIB didn't buy it and simply looked at my chest as if it were trying to talk to him.

"I just—I just want to deliver these," I said quickly, hoping to distract him from the fiasco in my boobs. Damn Alice.

MIB nodded once and gestured for me to give him the cheap bouquet that I'd purchased a few blocks down from a guy selling them out of a white bucket. It was a cheap bouquet with dyed carnations that were red, white, and blue. Patriotic was always best, right?

"I'll take them for you, ma'am," he said, almost taking the flowers from me. "Who are they going to?"

I sneezed and pulled them back close to my chest like I was cradling them. "No," I said quickly. "No, I want to deliver them myself. I'm a big fan."

He didn't even know how big a fan I was.

He sighed and shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't allow that. Fans are not allowed in the dressing rooms, ma'am." I made a mental note to whack him upside his ear if he called me ma'am again. Did I look like a ma'am? Ma'ams are over thirty. Everyone knows that.

I sneezed again. "Please. I just want to take them to Edward Cullen, the soloist. I want his autograph," I lied, hoping he'd take pity on an awestruck fan and show me to the correct room.

MIB shook his head to himself and finally relaxed slightly as he looked back up to me. "Alright… but I'll have to escort you."

The buzzing in my chest almost made me jump, but I was careful to rein it in this time. MIB had graciously decided to take a poor fan back to meet her idol and I wouldn't screw it up. I just hoped that Mr. Fucking Beautiful was still there. And I hoped he still wanted me.

MIB led me down the hallway to a door that was farther away from all the others. A woman that I'd recognized from being in the grand room when I walked squeezed past me and MIB and I almost sneezed on her. Finally, we reached the door and MIB knocked on it softly. I was about ready to burst out of my skin. He knocked again and I rocked back on my heels, impatiently waiting as each second ticked by.

By the third knock, MIB turned to look at me with an apologetic face as if to have to regretfully inform me that Mr. Fucking Beautiful wasn't in. He left. He'd left me. All because I'd left him. To get him some fucking flowers so that I'd be allowed into his dressing room.

I was about to drop the flowers and go running out of the building when the door opened.

"No more fucking flowers!"

* * *

EPOV

She wasn't picking up.

I'd already called her three times and it kept going straight to voicemail. Maybe she didn't pick up unknown numbers. I supposed that was a smart thing, but at the same time, I really needed her to know that I wanted her. Maybe she'd guessed with the way I'd finger fucked her mouth, but still.

I was starting to fear that I'd never see her again. Maybe it was a mistake to walk away from the fuck-hot woman in front of me to talk to old ladies. If I never did get to taste her skin or know what it felt like to be inside of her, I'd never regret it. And I'd never talk to another old lady for as long as I lived.

Again her phone went to voicemail after a few rings. She wasn't answering. I decided to leave a message because I wasn't sure what else to do.

"Isabella… Bella… it's, it's uh Edward. You know.. the violinist?" I smacked my forehead because I was making myself sound like a pretentious asshole. "Um… I just, uh… I wanted to apologize for leaving you to talk to some other people. It was really rude. Um… I was hoping that maybe I could make it up to you. If you'd let me. And I'd really like to make it up to you," I said, my brain getting foggy with images of her naked skin pressed to mine. "Really… So please call me back."

I hung up just as I heard a knocking on my door. I didn't want to answer because I was certain it was more flowers. And I didn't need anymore fucking flowers. I didn't even want the ones I'd been given. What the fuck was I supposed to do with them all anyway? I was starting to get a headache from the potent smell of roses. I punched some more flowers and stepped on the petals as they hit the carpeted floor.

The knock on the door came again and I turned to stare at it. I wanted to open it and scream about the fucking flowers. So I decided that that's what I was going to do. If they weren't told, how would they learn? So I crossed the room as another knock sounded and I got even more pissed. Seriously? Was it that serious to deliver flowers? Was it life and death?

I pulled the door open quickly, my angry face on, and I quickly shouted "No more fucking flowers!"

I stared into the face of a man that looked entirely too governmental to be working security at a symphony. I almost laughed at the black earpiece he was wearing. And then I noticed that he had flowers and I almost punched him. But when I looked down at the flowers, I realized that he wasn't holding them. She was.

"Isabella…," I sighed incredulously.

"Sir," government man said, "I'm sorry. She insisted on giving them to you herself."

I nodded, not breaking my stare from the windblown woman in blue. If nothing else, she looked even more ravishing with her pink cheeks, flushed skin, and crazed hair. And she would be even pinker and crazed looking when I was through with her.

I stepped aside and motioned for her to come in. Wordlessly, Isabella stepped past the man in black and I closed the door, not even allowing him to say anything else. She was here and she was mine.

As the door closed, I felt her arm brush past me. I still wore the tux I was made to wear, but I felt it. Just being close to her, I felt like I was burning inside.

She walked slowly to the other side of the room and put the bouquet of flowers on the vanity. Some of the flowers were blue, and even though it was odd, I thought they were appropriate because they matched her dress.

She bent low to look in the mirror I had sat in front of only minutes before. I could see her reflection as I tore my eyes away from her ass. She frowned and began pulling at her hair, taking things out until it started falling down. Small clangs sounded as I realized that she'd been pulling pins from her hair. Eventually, it was all down and cascading to the middle of her back. She looked even more fuck-hot than before. If that was possible.

For the first time all night, we were alone. I didn't care that her hair had looked like she'd just jumped off a motorcycle and flew back to me. It didn't matter because she was back and that could only mean one thing. She wanted me as much as I wanted her.

I couldn't help myself. I walked over to her and stared at her in the mirror. She looked at me through the mirror, her eyes intense. Without thinking about it, my hands rose to rest on her hips and I pulled her back against me. I wanted to feel her against my body. Hell, I'd wanted to feel her against my body since the moment I saw her. And after hours of fighting the painful erecting in my stupid pants, I needed to feel her against me.

She moaned my when erection pressed against her ass. Even through the million layers of gown, I could tell her ass was tight. So I moaned too.

We still hadn't said anything and she threw her head back onto my shoulder, exposing her neck for my viewing pleasure. I swept her hair over her shoulder and around to the other side, barely grazing her skin. And it was perfect skin. Fucking perfect and fucking beautiful skin, smooth and creamy. I was still on autopilot and my body decided that it wanted what it wanted and it was going to take what it wanted. So I bent to her neck and pressed the flat of my tongue against it. She shook, tilting her head every more. She tasted like the perfect combination of skin and sweat and soap and something like perfume. It was fantastic.

Basically sucking on her neck, I suddenly felt like a vampire. I wanted to bite into her flesh and claim her as my own. I dragged the tip of my tongue up the line of her neck, up to her ear where I sucked the lobe into my mouth. My teeth scraped along the fleshy skin and she let out a shaky breath. Her hips rotated back and pressed into my hard-on.

"Isabella…," I said against her ear. "Turn around." It was half command and half question. My tongue peeked out from my mouth again, my body still on autopilot, and dipped into the crevices in the shell of her ear. "Turn around," I said again.

Slowly, her hips moved in my hands and I felt her turning to face me. Her neck was red where I'd latched my mouth and her skin was flushed with excitement.

Her bottom lip was stuck beneath her teeth again and it made me harder for some reason. Like I had earlier, I moved my thumb and push her lip out of the way, sticking my finger into her mouth and allowing her to lick me. It was erotic as hell when she pulled my thumb between her teeth and sucked. Her eyes never left mine and I could tell that she was making a promise with her mouth, a promise that she would later perform on another part of me. My knees felt like buckling.

I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to fuck her mouth with my tongue until we couldn't breathe. I wanted to taste her, fully. I wanted her body pressed to mine again—preferably without the layers of clothing.

Her tongue wrapped around the tip of my thumb and I damn near came in my pants. A part of me, the less gentlemanly part that didn't correlate with fine education and violin training, wanted to shove her down to her knees and unzip my pants to let her suck on what really mattered. Because of her, I'd been in pain for the past few hours, only imagining what she'd feel like against me. Now I knew.

I was about to grab her and pull her against my erection again when she stepped back the few steps until her legs hit the vanity table. I made to follow, wanting nothing more than to sit her on it and lift her dress over her head, but she shook her head at me silently. I stopped, almost bursting in agony. I couldn't be sure if it would be my cock or my heart that would be doing the bursting.

Her hand snaked behind her back and her elbow came to an awkward point. I momentarily wondered if she was some kind of contortionist that could bend her body at weird angles. It could be scary, but it could also come in incredibly handy and it was therefore hot. I started fantasizing about her twisting so that her legs were folded behind her head.

I heard a strange sound then, like a buzzing but softer. I looked up expecting to find a moth or some other insect hovering around the light. There was nothing up there and the buzzing continued. I looked at Isabella and the wicked smile on her face clued me into the fact that the buzzing was coming from behind her back. Her arm pulled down behind her and I realized that she was unzipping her dress.

_Fuck me._

I stepped back because I really wanted to see this shit. Her arm pulled further down and she had to bend to get it all the way down. The dress was beginning to balloon out up at her chest and finally, as her arm reached the end of the zipper trail, the blue fell away. She was like a butterfly that was busting out of her cocoon and I briefly began wondering what kind of underwear she'd be wearing. A piece of me, perhaps the piece that was far too pretentious after being tossed around in classical music environments almost my entire life, wanted to see her in a corset. One of the old-school corsets with the lace and ribbons and ruffles. And there was the piece of me, the hot-blooded American twenty-something male piece, that wanted to see her in black lace and a garter belt with spike heels.

The dress fell and my eyes followed it down the smooth expanse of her legs. Down and down they went. I saw her shoes for the first time that evening and I thanked whatever gods that watched over violinists that sported boners while playing for her heels. Black and spikey. Fucking gorgeous.

My eyes went up, following the trail of her legs again, and I was met with a pair of purple panties. Dark purple, like eggplant or something. And they were lace. So lacey that I saw more skin than they were supposed to cover. And up my eyes went, over her navel, past her tight abs, and finally, up to the Motherland. To Heaven. To Nirvana.

Fuck corsets. I would never have a wet dream about Kate Winslet grasping the bed poster as her mother tightened her corset again. Fuck corsets forever. It was all about bras and not wearing them.

She wasn't wearing a fucking bra. Her tits were bare for me to see and they were staring at me, smiling. As soon as her dress fell, something had fallen from her chest and down by her shoes. But I wasn't looking. I could only stare at the nipples that were pointing directly at me.

"So…," she said, ripping my eyes from her chest and making me look back up to her face. "Do those hands do more than play violin?"

I practically flew from where I was standing and jumped on her.

* * *

BPOV

I don't know where I got the courage.

The first time I spoke to him, I'd been reduced to a pile of mush before him and stuttered like a complete idiot. I couldn't move and I was barely thinking straight. Or at all, actually. When he'd first taken my hand, I almost fainted. When he kissed it, I nearly died.

But somehow, I'd gotten the balls—female though they might have been—to take off my dress.

I felt it sliding down my body as I undid the zipper fully. I felt the relief as my boobs were let free, followed by my chest and my stomach. I no longer felt cased in. The phone that had made me scream minutes before fell to the floor with a thud, but I didn't care. It could have broken for all I cared. And finally, the dressed fell into a puddle at my feet as it was when I first stepped into it. But that had been hours ago and much had changed since then.

Edward was staring at me, his eyes growing darker the further the dress fell down my body. When it hit the floor, I saw his eyes crawling up my legs and lingering on my chest. My nipples were aching with how tight they were, and his eyes on them wasn't helping anything.

"So…," I asked him, watching as he looked back up to me. The corner of his mouth turned up into a half-smirk. "Do those hands do more than play violin?"

His eyes widened for a second and I had just begun to smile at his reaction when he crossed the small space between us and took him me in his arms. Rather, he pressed himself against me so hard that I wasn't sure we were still two separate bodies.

My legs were pressed against the vanity again, the wood probably leaving a red line at the backs of my thighs, and his hands were on the side of me, gripping the table until his knuckles were white. His crotch was pressed into my pelvis and I could feel the hard bulge right below my bellybutton. I'd felt it behind me when he pulled my body to his, and a part of me wanted to turn around and tear his pants off with my teeth before I pulled him into my mouth. But for some reason, a part of me felt like that wasn't appropriate. There was a slow buzzing between us and I had to milk it for all it was worth.

His face was very close to mine, his breath was sweeping over my skin and making me warmer than I had been. I also made a mental note that his chest was grazing my overly-sensitive and much-too-tightly-pebbled nipples. I bit back a moan as he leaned closer.

"Oh, Isabella," he said, his lips getting desperately close to mine. "They do much more than that." I hadn't even realized that he'd moved one of his hands from the table below me when I felt him pinch one of my nipples between his fingers.

"Ahhhh," I gasped when I felt the familiar and pleasurable tug rocket through me. It wasn't electric, it wasn't fiery, but it was enough of jolt that sent fire flooding my veins and pooling down south.

He rolled my tightened nipple between his thumb and forefinger and my eyes rolled back. My mouth opened and let loose a breathy silence as I tried to contain the pulses that were beginning to overtake my body. Before I could close my mouth, his tongue found its way in and was sparring with mine.

His mouth felt as beautiful as it looked. His lips were perfect against mine and he didn't clank his teeth with mine like previous guys that fell into the loser-lover category. His tongue was smooth and moved languidly with mine. He sucked when necessary, licked when unexpected, and bit when desired. Mr. Fucking Beautiful was Mr. Fucking Fantastic Kisser.

I moaned into his mouth when he continued his beautiful torture on my poor nipple. He was pulling and turning and if he didn't stop, I'd come from just nipple play—no easy feat. And just as I was certain that the nipple-induced orgasm was well on its way, his hand moved. Again, Mr. Fucking Beautiful had robbed me of an orgasm that evening. I growled into his mouth in frustration, dragging my teeth over his bottom lip.

His fingertips were massaging my scalp beneath my hair in ways that made me forget what I was getting so frustrated in the first place. He was seemingly calming me after deliberately antagonizing me.

"Fuck," I groaned when I felt his other hand tear my underwear off. I felt them sliding down my legs and finally fall to the floor at my feet.

My nipple was still burning from his pulling and twisting. But his middle finger was clever and it was moving around my clit in ways that had me bucking against him.

His mouth left mine and I could feel that his lips were smirking again, though I hadn't opened my eyes yet. I could feel his breath linger over my cheek and I felt him move to my ear again, biting my earlobe and laving it with his tongue.

"I told you," he breathed, almost in a chastising manner. "My hands can do so much more," a fact he emphasized by swirling his fingers around my swollen clit, "than play violin."

Before I could even attempt to respond, his tongue was in my mouth again. He tasted divine. Like lusciousness personified. His fingers were fucking magic—real spirit fingers—and I was bucking against his hand like a horny animal, and grunting in his mouth like a crazed donkey. And maybe I was. All I knew was that the man made me crazy.

But Mr. Fucking Beautiful-Slash-Great Fucking Kisser-Slash-Soloist Extraordinaire didn't stop there. Just when I thought his fingers couldn't get any more talented, he surprised me so much that I squealed in his mouth. Without any warning, two of his beautiful, large, and talented fingers pushed into me, his thumb taking over on my clit. He was like his own orchestra with the way he moved without hesitation and in perfect synchrony.

"Oh God," I moaned.

I could feel the blood pulsing inside of me, rushing like a tsunami pushing against the Hoover Dam. The pressure was building, pooling, ready to explode. I wondered what we might look like to bystanders with my naked body bent around his, convulsing, his body moving to meet mine.

"That's it," he said into my mouth. "You're so fucking wet."

And with that, the dam broke loose and I screamed into his shoulder, my body shuddering with the aftershocks. But his hand didn't stop and I twitched in ultrasensitivity every time his finger moved over my clit. My hand fisted against his arm and I was sure that my nails were digging into his skin. I didn't care.

His mouth was back on mine and I was still shaking against him. I was beginning to see lights behind my eyelids. Every pleasurable surge was beginning to border on painful, but he wouldn't stop torturing my deliciously swollen clit.

I was just about tell him to stop, unable to take it any longer, but he knew better. Before I knew it, I was shaking and convulsing in another incredible orgasm. This time, I wasn't quick enough to muffle my screams in his shoulder and instead cried out into the silent room, not caring who might have heard outside.

My clit was pulsing like its own miniature heart, forcing blood into my extremities. Only then did his hand slow and finally stop its assault on me.

"Christ," he panted above me. "You're incredible."

I was too weak to answer, I was almost too weak to think. My body wanted to give out and crumble to the floor in a pile of sated jelly. So instead of talking, I did the other thing that I'd been wanting to do since I'd seen him come out on stage. My hand reached out and latched onto the hard throbbing bulge in his pants. Mine.

His head bowed low toward me and he rocked into my hands.

"Isabella," he breathed harshly. It sounded almost like a warning.

I was definitely really beginning to like my name. I'd always hated it growing up. Ever since some little bitch named Jessica Stanley told me that my name reminded her of an old lady, I'd hated it. But now, hearing it roll off the tongue of Mr. Fucking Beautiful, it was glorious. His voice alone was laced with an aphrodisiac.

I squeezed and my hand found the rod-like form. Oh crap. I wanted it. Badly. It felt hard and firm and deliciously big. I couldn't wait.

My legs were still shaking, but I somehow managed to kneel before him. Even moving caused pleasure and pain electric sprints to shoot through my body. I shivered as I bent forward to pull open his belt buckle. Suddenly, I felt his strong and well-trained hands grasp my face.

"Isabella, what are you doing?" he asked as he tilted my face up to look at him.

With my eyes trained up at him, I squeezed him in response and lowered the zipper quickly.

"You—you don't… you don't have to," he mumbled quickly. I squeezed my hand around him again and he sucked in a sharp breath.

"I know," I said. In one fluid movement, my hand snaked inside the gray boxer briefs and pulled him up close to my lips. "But I want to." And I took him in my mouth.

"Fuck," he breathed desperately, his fingers clenching around my face before falling at his sides.

My mouth encased him, sliding over him as I rocked back and forth. He was fucking perfect. He was at least seven inches of perfect hot skin-covered steel. He was fucking hard. I felt the head threatening the back of my throat as I leaned forward on his erection. And the taste. My god. Every man tastes different, and he was a flavor I wanted to make into a popsicle. It was the perfect salty, sweet, and metallic mixture that reminded me of a candied penny.

I looked up at him and his eyes were closed. I continued sliding him in and out of my mouth, my tongue rippling along the underside. I saw him pull his bottom lip behind his teeth and scrunch his brow. I nearly came again when I saw how fucking beautiful his O Face was. And it wasn't even full O, it was Pre-O Face.

The ridges around his cock massaged over my lips as he slid in and out of my mouth. It wasn't even a cock. Cock was too much of an ordinary word to describe it. He was far from ordinary, every single part of him. He was like a steel ram rod wrapped in buttery-soft skin. And I couldn't wait for his steel to ram me. Just thinking about it made me shake. I moaned around him and his fingers tightened his hold around my head. The pressure was a pleasant reminder that I hadn't lost my touch.

As he slipped back out, I smirked to myself as I deliberately probed the tip of my tongue against the small hole in the head.

"Oh Christ," he said, his head falling back, his fingertips pressing harder just above my ears.

I laughed inside. I was thoroughly enjoying myself. With each moan he made, every time his fingers pressed harder into my skull, I got more and more turned on. Even if he hadn't just made me cum extra hard, I would still have been soaking wet.

His Pre-O Face was almost as fucking beautiful as he was. There was no denying that fact. I wanted to take a picture of him and blow it up into a poster and hang it above my bed.

My eyes were starting to hurt from being strained up at him, but I didn't care.

The lip he had tucked beneath his teeth was beginning to quiver and his Pre-O Face was turning into Near-O Face. He looked like he was in pain, perfect pain. Delicious pain. And he looked so delicious it was almost painful.

My hand twisted at the base of his cock, sliding around and up and down in rhythm with my mouth moving over him. If I didn't know any better, I could swear that he was beginning to swell inside my mouth as my lips seemed to be barely able to contain him. His Near-O Face was quickly crossing into Ready-Or-Not-O Face. But I couldn't have that. I wasn't nearly done having my pleasure with him.

I popped him out of my mouth and his steel rod sprung out, bobbing on its own. It was so fucking beautiful. I couldn't help myself, I licked the tip like I would a lollipop. Lil Wayne's song popped in my head and I had to fight the urge to continue licking. I wasn't sure the exact number, but I was pretty sure that it wouldn't take many more licks to get to the center of his tootsie pop.

I looked back up to his face and saw that he was staring down at me, his hands balled into fists at his sides. I had to admit, I really liked the feeling of his fingers pressing against my head. Still, his beautiful cock was bouncing and twitching after I finished my licking. I grasped his steel rod and tilted it up, my eyes still up on his. He looked a cross between panicked and excited. And I was desperately excited.

In dramatic fashion, I placed the tip of my tongue on the base of the underside, right above his balls, and pulled it all the way back up to the tip. I looked up, seeking his approval. He hissed in a sharp breath and scrunched his eyes closed. His cock was bouncing again when I let it go and I could tell that it was starting to swell even more. His Ready-Or-Not-O Face was back and I knew I had to work him down. So I moved down.

I pulled the skin around his balls into my mouth and sucked, laving it with my tongue. I sucked his balls, one after the other. They felt like marbles in my mouth and his hands were back in my hair. It either meant that it was driving him even crazier, or he no longer was focusing all his attention on not cumming before he was ready. Both appealed to me, so I did it again.

My free hand came up to cup his balls as I massaged them with my tongue. His cock had stopped its bouncing and I looked up into his face again. His O Faces were replaced with a much more in control expression. I wasn't sure I liked that. I wanted to lower the flames, not extinguish them. So I pulled his cock back into my mouth and pulled my lips up. My teeth grazed him and his fingers tightened against my head. The fire was in full force again.

As he popped out of my mouth, he twitched. I smiled and pulled him back into my mouth, sucking happily. Just for good measure, I grazed my teeth over his length and before I knew it, he was pulling me up by my arms and I was sitting on the vanity again. His face was inches from mine, his eyes on fire. I was shaking in anticipation and the overwhelming lust he produced in me. Finally, unable to take it any longer, I pulled his down by his neck and crashed our mouths together.

My hands twisted into his hair and pulled. I delighted in the moan that echoed into my mouth. As my hands moved down his neck, I realized that he was still clothed and I did not approve. After all, I was completely naked. Frantically, unable to wait to feel his skin against mine, I pulled at his tux, unable to figure out how it was put together.

The vest, the tie, the shirt, cufflinks, all barriers in my way to feel him. He noticed what I was trying to do as I did my best to tear through the fabric with my chewed nails.

"Off," I commanded and panted. "Off now."

Rather than stop to laugh or ask what I was doing, he began helping and made quick work of the buttons and cufflinks. In what had to be a few seconds flat, every bit of fabric separating us was gone. I didn't care how much the tux cost, if it had been ruined forever, or if I'd ripped off buttons or broken cufflinks.

Finally, I was able to look at Mr. Fucking Beautiful in all his glory. He was even more fucking beautiful without any clothes on, as I knew he would be. The planes of his chest were perfect, his arms were defined and strong, his abs tight and toned. I hadn't realized that my hands were tracing over his perfect body until I heard him chuckle above me.

"Now," he said, a laugh still in his voice. He took my hand from his chest and brought it up to his mouth before laying a long kiss against it. "Where were we?"

* * *

EPOV

She was going to be the death of me. I was going to crumple up into a dead mass of tissue and bone because of her.

I thought her tongue-fucking the head of my cock was enough to make me scream. But I wasn't prepared for the tease to come out. She looked like she had fire in her, of that I was sure. Especially with the way she showed up at my door, demanding government man to let her in. She looked as though she had clawed her way through a mass of people to get to me. But that was only a flicker compared to what she'd just done.

Without a doubt, as she expertly moved around my cock, moving her tongue at the same time, sucking and moaning when needed, she was giving me the best head of my life. Bar none. It was so good, I could barely concentrate on the feelings themselves. I had to close my eyes and start chanting in my head. It was all I could do to keep from cumming early.

Granted, I wanted to cum; needed to cum. I was pretty sure, as hard as she'd made me through the performance, and with her expert touch, I was going to die if I didn't cum, and soon. But cumming was a no-go zone if I didn't get inside of her first. Some men think about baseball stats while trying not to cum, other count to astronomical numbers. I was simply thinking about the prize: getting inside Isabella. And she was doing all she had to break me.

I was thankful when she stopped tongue-fucking my dick. Well, I wasn't, but I was happy to be able to rein in some of my control again. If she'd kept that up, I definitely would only have lasted a few more minutes or so.

She looked up at me and the fire was still in her eyes. It was devilish, plotting, and I was suddenly afraid of what she was going to do next. I knew that whatever it was, the chanting would definitely have to continue in my head no matter what.

She licked the underside of my dick, slowly licked up to the head, sucking up and down. I almost lost it. It wasn't as intense as the tongue-fucking, but it was close. My dick was twitching and she had to know just how close she was bringing me the edge. She smirked up at me and I knew she had to know.

Isabella moved from my dick to my balls and just when I thought the head couldn't get any better, she proved me wrong. She laved them with saliva, sucking on each and moaned. The vibrations when straight through me and into my body. The coil that I was so desperately trying to maintain wound was threatening to burst open in the pit of my torso. I didn't know how she did it, but she was igniting the most powerful arousal ever known to man with a simple blow. Well, it wasn't simple. It was fucking phenomenal.

Her lips wrapped around my balls and my dick bounced, willing for her to touch it again. And touch it she did. She pulled my dick back into her mouth, her eyes looking up at me with the same devilish stare that I was growing weary of, and I saw as her top lip pulled up to reveal her teeth. I felt it before my eyes could send the signals to my brain to decode. Her teeth scraped over my sensitive cock, and she didn't suppress her bottom teeth from the doing the same on the very sensitive underside.

_FUCK._

I couldn't think. I could barely breathe. If I had allowed myself to focus on the absolute, all-consuming pleasure that the pain of her teeth caused, I would have exploded all over her face. But I couldn't allow it. I kept my mind on the prize. And the prize was getting inside of her. Like a dieter focusing on a goal weight, I could only focus on her pussy.

I had to stop her before she did something else that would make me cum too soon. I bent down, grabbed her arms, and pulled her back onto the vanity table. I heard her naked ass slap against the wood and I suddenly was overwhelmed with the desire to spank her, to see her flesh turn pink under my hand. But there would be plenty of time for that later.

I leaned close to her, staring deep into her eyes. I wanted to say so many things, I wanted to do so many things, but I was unsure of where to start. I was so hard, so turned on, that speaking might even have made me cum at that moment.

Still, staring at her, I was completely in awe of her beauty. She wasn't just a hot body that I couldn't wait to pound into, she was more than that. She had the elegant neck of a queen, the skin of goddess, and the face of an angel. I couldn't wait to have her, all of her.

She eyed me quizzically, probably unsure as to why I was still staring at her. I wanted to say something to define the moment, but nothing seemed right. But then she kissed me. And she didn't just kiss me, she pulled me to her roughly and forced her mouth on mine. I didn't complain.

I could vaguely taste myself on her tongue and I found myself wondering if I could make her a medal for the Best Head Ever Award. If not, I'd have to settle for giving her every single bouquet in the room as thanks.

Suddenly, I felt her hands going in a frantic frenzy all over my chest. She was reaching, pulling, searching, for a way to get it off. Quickly, I broke from her lips and pulled my jacket off, throwing it behind me and I didn't care if it fell on a burning bonfire. Not only did I want to feel Isabella's body against mine, but I hated those damned penguin suits anyway.

Her hands were still pulling at me, trying to get my sleeves off after she unbuttoned my shirt. I threw my vest off and pulled my tie from around my neck. I saw that she was having difficulty with the cufflinks and I quickly discarded them too, not caring if they fell down a vent. I pushed my pants and boxers off, kicking them away as I toed off my socks and finally, I felt her skin against mine.

I was almost dizzy when I was able to focus on her again. I had stripped so fast that I was surprised my clothes were not in shredded ruins. Then again, they probably were. But I was no longer able to think on my clothes when I felt her hands gliding over my chest, following the indentions of my body. I could only think of how much I wanted her to touch me, how badly I wanted to touch her, and how incredibly and ridiculously hard my cock was.

The look on her face, the pure awe was funny to me. I stifled a laugh and she looked up to me. Our moment of desperation had been slowed by a few thousand percent. It was a good thing as far as I was concerned; with the way I was so aroused, I probably would have cum the moment I entered her like some inexperienced twit. Now, I was calmed, focused, more in control of my body than I had been when she was giving me the best blow job of my life.

"Now," I said, kissing the back of her hand as I took it from my chest. "Where were we?"

I snaked my arms around her, pulling so close that she wrapped her legs around my hips, the spikes of her heels pushing into my ass. They were sure to leave marks and I was overcome with the intense desire for her to mark me in anyway she could.

Her pussy was in perfect line with my very ready and willing cock. But the moment was still far too mellow. With her in my arms, without another word, I pulled her to me and kissed her hard. The desperation was back. She moaned into my mouth and her hands tangled and pulled at my hair. I had no idea how she knew just what drove me crazy, but she knew and she did it well. She tightened her legs around me and I was now flush with her pussy; I could feel the warmth and the sweet wetness lingering there, just waiting for me to invade. It was beckoning me, welcoming me like a grandmother with fresh cookies. She couldn't have known just how close to the edge she was driving me by simply wrapping her legs around me.

But then she bucked. Her hips moved against me, pushing closer to me. She knew, she had to have known. She was begging me to heed her pussy's begging, to give her what we both wanted. Hell, it was what we'd both wanted since the start of the show. And I couldn't wait any more.

Without taking my mouth from hers, I moved my hand down from her neck, over her breast, pulled her nipple, and continued further until I grabbed my cock in my hand. Her legs tightened around my ass and I knew she was demanding it now. So, without another thought, I pushed into her.

"AH!" she yelled as she broke away from my mouth. Her head fell back and hit the mirror behind her.

I entered her pretty hard and pretty fast, so I allowed her a few seconds to recover. My body was tightening, my muscles screaming for me to move within her. Once again, I found myself chanting inside my head to remain calm. I had to rein in any control I still had left. Any that I did have was questionable, but I still had to try.

And she felt fucking perfect. Just like I knew she would be. She was warm, wet, smooth, tight. It was like my dick was being squeezed by slick, warm velvet. She was fucking amazing. But she still seemed to be reeling from the penetration. I was beginning to wonder if maybe the desperation that I had been craving was the wrong thing to hope for. I was just about to ask if I'd hurt her when she bucked against me, writhing her hips on mine.

"Don't stop," she breathed. "Please." For good measure, she moved her hips against me just in case I wasn't sure what she was talking about.

I grabbed her hips and pulled out of her until only the head was still inside. She bit her lip and stared at me with the fire that awakened some kind of wild animal inside of me. And I pushed into her, almost as hard as the first time. Her head fell back against the mirror, a moan falling from her lips. I looked down at our connection and I watched as I thrust in and out again. She made a mewling sound as I slid back in and I did it again; she mewled again. She sounded like a damn cat and cats were never as sexy as they suddenly were.

I began moving in her, building a rhythm that didn't threaten to undo me and make my balls explode too quickly. Her beautiful fucking breasts bounced up and down when I thrust and her nipples were begging to be touched. So I touched them.

I sucked on her right nipple as I ground into her, my rhythm steady enough that I wasn't jerking her entire body too much. When her nipple felt strong enough to cut glass, I moved to the other and bit on the skin around it, happy when it turned pink under my mouth.

Her walls were clenching around me, her pussy welcoming me and drinking me in completely. And with the way things were going, it would definitely be drinking something soon.

"Oh god," she moaned, her head hitting the mirror behind her again. "Harder. Please," she begged. "Fuck me harder."

That definitely eased my worries that I had thrust into her too hard the first. But my thinking, at least the thinking that was taking place in my brain, ceased and cognitive processes flooded down to my dick. It heard what she said, it heard what she was begging me for, and it couldn't be happier to oblige her request.

My fingers dug into her hips as I held her more firmly. I used her as support as I pulled back and pushed into her, hard. Her head fell back again and I was really beginning to like the sound of her head hitting the mirror made.

"Ah," she sighed in pleasure.

Her hands clutched my arms as I pounded into her and her tits bounced like rubber balls on ecstasy. But I kept fucking her, hard and fast as she asked. But not only because she asked, but because I wanted to.

Even though my instincts kept telling me let go and give control over to my body, to stop over thinking it, I couldn't. If I relinquished control to nature, I would have exploded the second I entered her. I had to pace myself. The harder and faster I was moving, as incredibly pleasurable as it was, it wasn't going to last for long. I began a counting rhythm in my head, hoping that it would help my resolve. But when I hit that last number, I started pumping into her like it was nobody's business.

"Yes," she murmured, her head still banging on the mirror. "So good… So good."

I saw a thin sheen of sweat covering her creamy skin, and even as I moved within her, I wanted to lick it all off. The lust for the woman never seemed to cease. I couldn't get over how amazing she felt, both in and out. Her skin was so smooth, so deliciously firm, and she was wonderfully ridged and warm inside. It was almost enough to make me cum just thinking about it.

I felt the tightening in my abdomen, that coil wound up so tight that it was sure to explode any second. I pounded into her, thrusting with everything, her walls squeezing me until I was sure I was going to lose my mind. I heard the familiar sound of my balls slapping against her ass as I moved, and it only spurred me on to continue. The faster I moved, the louder my balls slapped.

"Oh god," I panted. "Oh god."

I was so close I could taste the excitement and release that was sure to come with my orgasm. It was there, getting closer to me. I could feel it building and ready to burst in my body. My cock was pumping and twitching inside of her, screaming for the pressure to be released.

I was moving so fast that the room was filled with echoes of pants and skin slapping and moving together. It was fucking sexy as hell. I was surrounded by sex, literally and not.

I was almost there. I could barely breathe and my chest was in heavy spasm. I wanted her to cum again, I wanted her pussy walls to squeeze me dry, and that was the only reason that I held off as long as I had already. But I couldn't hold off any longer. It was coming and it was coming fast.

There were only a few more thrusts left in me before I came, and I wanted to make them count. I filled her hard and deep, strong and fast, making sure with each thrust that she screamed. Her fingernails were digging into my arms and I knew that I would definitely feel the marks later. But at the moment, all I could feel was euphoria. And it was only going to get better.

"Shit," I said with a hard thrust. "Shit." Another thrust. "Shit." And I was just about to jump off the cliff and into the abyss of black pleasure, bright and dark, hot and cold, sparking and numbing, all at the same time… and it all came to a crashing end.

Isabella slapped her hand against my chest so hard that it broke through the adrenaline and the endorphins that were pumping into my bloodstream.

"No, wait! Stop!" she said.

The release that I'd been craving since the moment I saw her, the release I needed more desperately than anything else I could imagine, had been taken from me.

She really was trying to kill me, I was sure of it.

* * *

BPOV

It was the fuck of a lifetime.

When I got dressed that afternoon and put the huge gown on, I had absolutely no idea that the night would end with me in a violinist's dressing room, my dress on the floor, my ass on his table, his cock pounding into me. I didn't know any of that was going to happen, but I definitely didn't mind.

His body was more fucking beautiful than I could imagine. His arms were firm and I gripped them as he pulled my naked body against his. Finally, the moment that I had been craving since I first opened the program and tried to guess at the color of his eyes, I was going to feel him inside of me.

Sitting through almost three hours of music while fighting the urge to snake my hand up my dress was torture. But it was all worth it when I felt him take me.

Everyone has their preferences, but I'd be lying if I didn't say my favorite part of sex wasn't the orgasm itself. Sure, it's awesome. Well, more than awesome. But the best part for me was the penetration. And he didn't disappoint. A beautiful, talented man like Mr. Fucking Beautiful Soloist Extraordinaire knew exactly what I needed and what I wanted when he forced himself into me. It was hard and deep and I screamed.

My head fell back against the mirror and I had to regain my composure. Just him pushing into me was enough to send me into a frenzy of orgasmic muscle contractions. And I suddenly felt so full, so alive. It was the perfect moment when my body knew it had an invader, but a welcome invader. My body was squeezing it, greeting it like an enthusiastic hostess. I couldn't get over how perfect he felt inside of me.

My skin felt like it was on fire. His body heat was matching mine, our skin sliding as he moved over me, in me, on me, out of me. With each thrust, his throat exerted a deep breath, like he struggling for life. It was fucking sexy.

I can't even describe what it felt like to feel him moving inside of me. It was like I could feel every vein in his cock rubbing me, every twist and turn, every ridge and pull. I felt like jelly, like immobile jelly. A part of me felt like I was floating up to the decorative ceiling and I had no more control over my body.

My clit was still pulsing and his pelvic bone was hitting it at the perfect speed, at the perfect angle and my internal muscles were contracting as he thrust in and out. I felt it building. I squeezed his cock inside me, both intentionally and unintentionally. His teeth clenched when I did that and his Ready-Or-Not O Face was back. It was fucking beautiful.

I stared at him, ready to see his Full-Blown O Face, hoping that I would be able to stare into his dark green eyes as he came inside of me. I wondered if he would bite his lip, yell, collapse. But my own building climax distracted me from wondering what he would look like.

And it all felt wrong.

I wanted more. I needed more.

Mr. Fucking Beautiful Soloist Extraordinaire was a violinist, first and foremost. He was a fucking sexy violinist, with fucking talented fingers, but a violinist nonetheless. And I needed to see that part of him.

"Shit," he panted. "Shit." He began thrusting faster and harder. "Shit."

I knew the end was near, and though I wanted the fireworks and bright lights and chorus and jelly-like immobility and fire and hot and cold and everything that came along with cumming, I pushed it off.

"No, wait! Stop!" I yelled over his panting.

Even I was sure of my voice. I wanted him to continue, I needed him to continue. My body suddenly felt hollow when he pulled out. The shock on his face was painful. He looked as if someone were just about to castrate him. I suddenly felt extremely guilty for the blue balls he was sure to endure at that moment.

"I'm sorry," I said, my voice still shaky.

I had to push away every instinct that was telling me to pull him back to him and allow him to sink inside of my body and finish what he started.

I sat up, my head finally leaving the mirror and I stood on shaky legs as I hopped off the vanity. He stared me, the confusion and sheer pain completely stretching over his face. I sure that he was speechless as he didn't say anything.

I looked down and his cock was swollen, bouncing and twitching, begging for attention, and it was dark red, almost purple. God I wanted it. I hadn't had a cock that good ever. He was hard, and strong, and fierce as he fucked me. And even though I couldn't have asked for more, I needed more.

He watched me as I moved across the room, my legs threatening to give out on the spike heels that I still wore. I looked around the room, looking for what I wanted, and I spotted it on a chair in the corner.

It looked like a black canvass bag that would house an expensive camcorder, only much bigger. Mr. Fucking Beautiful still hadn't said anything and I could feel his eyes on me as I made my way to the corner. I took the handle and laid the case on its side. The zipper was the only sound in the room aside from our rough breathing. When I pulled the top up, I had no choice but to stare.

Before today, I had absolutely no appreciation for classical music, or classical instruments for that matter. Never before had I seen a violin up close and I had never really appreciated the beauty. Until now, that is. It was absolutely stunning. The violin sat in a bed of what looked like red velvet and it was gleaming, as if it had just been polished in the finest varnish known to man.

My fingers passed over the strings and I felt the tightened lines against my skin. There was a small noise that echoed inside the instrument and I felt as if it were singing to me. I grabbed the neck and pulled it out of the case, my free hand grabbing the bow from the top part of the case.

"What are you…" I heard from the other side of the room where the naked and extremely hard man was standing. There was a definite panic in his voice.

I turned and walked over to him and he eyed me with even more confusion. I held the violin and the bow out to him and he stared at them quizzically. He probably thought I'd lost my mind. And considering just how close we both were to orgasm when I stopped it, I probably had.

"Play," I told him softly.

He took the violin tentatively in his hand and the bow in the other. He stared down at them, the confusion still all over his face. I was beginning to feel sorry for him. Poor Mr. Fucking Beautiful.

"Play for me," I said again, stepping closer to him.

His forehead was sweaty and a few strands of his fucking hot bronze hair were stuck to it. I remembered the way he groaned whenever I pulled his hair and suddenly a rush of excitement hit me. I couldn't believe I had stopped him. I was angry at my self and couldn't believe my crazy ways.

I put my hand to his chest and pushed him, walking him back. He stared at me, a million questions in his eyes, but he walked back slowly. I led him the few feet to the couch in the middle of the room and finally pushed him down onto it. He fell back lightly and he cradled the violin to his chest.

He looked fucking amazing. Now that I was about to get what I wanted, I couldn't resist. His rock hard and throbbing cock was standing up, twitching for me. His sweaty sexhair was array, his flushed skin was sticky, his amazing body was on full display. _For me._ Rawr.

Though his cock was still fiercely hard, his face was nothing but absolute and utter confusion. He hadn't moved since I threw him on the couch and he only looked up at me, still speechless and not having said a word. So I did the only thing I could think to do, the only thing I wanted to do: I straddled him.

As soon as my legs were knelt around him, he sat up slightly, readjusting so that his back was against the back of the couch rather than the seats. His hands immediately dropped the beautiful violin and went to grab my hips. His face was no longer confused and he only looked extremely happy that I hadn't decided to leave him with the worst blue balls ever.

I grabbed his cock, squeezing it as I guided it, and he let out a thankful hiss. His eyes were flashing, a beautiful dark and lustful green that I wanted to lose myself in. I smiled wickedly at him as I lined the head of his cock up with my opening. His hips jerked, impatient to get himself inside of me. I sank down onto him, the feeling of fullness overwhelming me and making me feel complete. We both hissed and moaned our appreciation.

Immediately, his hands went to my hips to try and move me, to create the friction that we both needed to get to where we were on the vanity. I could feel his cock pulsing inside of me, practically yelling at me to move. I was sure it was upset with the stunt I'd pulled.

Mr. Fucking Beautiful pushed his hips up again, desperately willing me to move. But I stayed firm and didn't move. My arms pushed his shoulders down, forcing him to stay still. I could see that his dark and lustful eyes were begging me to move.

"No," I said, answering his silent request. "I want you to play." My voice was airy and full of doubt. I wanted him to play, but I also wanted to ride him until we were both screaming.

He looked over at the violin that he'd tossed to the side of the couch and then back at me. It was as if I was torturing him. And I knew I was. I was sure that his cock, as hard as it was, while it felt absolutely wonderful inside of me, was probably pulsing in angry pain.

His hands pulled my hips forward, making me rock on him. His pelvic bone slammed against my clit again and I swear that I saw stars. Little yellow ones that made sparkly sounds. It took all my strength to keep from moving again. I desperately wanted to. My clit was pulsing again, seeking out friction and attention. And he must have noticed because he removed a hand from my hip and moved it down between my legs. His thumb flicked at my swollen and very hard bud quickly and I bucked, throwing my head back. I rocked against him unwillingly, my body suddenly abuzz with electricity.

I couldn't help it, I was riding him. I heard his legs slapping against my butt every time I sank onto him and his hands guided me in the rhythm that he wanted. Each time I took him in, he hit somewhere deep inside of me that was beginning to swell. I started shaking.

"No," I moaned into the air, still not stopping. "I have to… I have to stop."

But I couldn't. I kept moving and he pounded into me from below. I knew that my orgasm was going to hit me soon and somewhere in the cloudy points of my mind, I once again pushed his shoulders down and forced him to stop moving. He jerked his hips up and made sure his pelvis hit my clit and I let out a loud and shaky breath.

"Stop," I pleaded. "Stop that. Please." I could barely speak, the air leaving my lungs quickly as my chest heaved. I stared into his eyes to let know how that I was serious and he nodded reluctantly.

"You don't want…?" he asked, a pained expression coming over his face.

"Oh, I want," I said quickly, nodding. "I do." I leaned over and took the violin and handed it back to him. "I want you play."

"But—" he tried before I cut him off.

"Shh," I said, putting my finger over his delicious mouth. "Play."

His green eyes lingered on mine for a long while before he finally took the violin from me and tucked it under his chin. His other hand reached to the other side of the couch and took the bow, pulling it up to the violin. He still stared at me, questions ablaze in his eyes. To encourage him, I squeezed him internally and his eyes rolled back.

"Play," I said again.

His bow slowly pulled down the strings and I watched as his talented fingers, the ones that had been inside of me only a short while before, pressed and moved on the fingerboard. He stared at me as he played, our eyes locking. He moved the bow up and down in slow and long notes and I slowly rose. Panic scrambled on his face as he probably thought I was going to dismount and sit next to him so we could cuddle while he played me romantic music. Far from it. Rather than getting off, I slid back down on him in the same slow speed of his notes.

His eyes closed and his fingers stopped, his bow falling from the violin. When he opened his eyes again, I could he was desperately trying to control his breathing. I knew I was torturing him. His hips moved again, searching for the friction he needed for release, but I wasn't going to give it to him yet.

"Not until you play," I said as I pulled my hips up and away from him.

His bow took position on the strings again and dragged slowly down. I sank down in the same speed as the note again, taking him in fully. He let out a deep guttural sound that turned me on even more.

"Keep playing," I instructed when it looked as if he would stop.

The notes came again, slow and long, probably not anything important. Since I wasn't a classical music expert, and really couldn't identify it outside of Beethoven's 5th, I guessed that he was simply making up what he was playing. I didn't care. Ever since I saw him on stage, I knew I had to have him. I needed him, needed to feel him inside of me. And I wanted to have him while he played the violin. After all, it was the sexiest thing I'd ever seen aside from his naked body.

I moved on him, matching the rhythm of his music. I wasn't sure if his notes were slow because I was taking away his concentration with the way I was moving on him, or if he was simply dictating the speed. I squeezed him again with my internal muscles and his bow slid down the violin quickly. I held in a laugh.

"Play," I commanded again, moving against him, taking him deeper. I sucked in a breath when his pelvis hit my clit again.

His playing, the haphazard notes, grew into something that definitely sounded written and practiced and suddenly, he was the one controlling my rhythm.

His bow moved over the strings at lightning speed. It was like a superhero. The violin squealed and sung, the notes flooding in the space around us. I couldn't help it, I matched my speed to his.

I had to bend to my right slightly to avoid getting hit in the ribs by his elbow, but I didn't mind. His notes were gorgeous and I followed, riding him. Our skin was slapping again and the sweat had built once more. The notes sounded as if someone was being chased and they had to run for their life. It was so tight, so quick, so strained. I had no choice, I followed.

His pelvis was slamming against mine and I could only moan into the open air around me. I thought for sure that he was going to stop playing and take my hips in his hands again, but he didn't. He kept playing and the music only drove me to ride him harder, faster.

I started screaming nonsensical words into the air. I was sure some of them were real words, possibly even English, but I couldn't focus on what I was saying. All I could do was feel him inside, the electric pulses of my clit, and the music stinging around my skin.

The notes were filled with tension, fast and tight and small and large all at the same time. I suddenly felt overwhelmed like I had when I watching him on stage. But this was better. He was inside of me, under me, filling me, stretching me.

My head fell back and my hair was brushing against my butt as I moved. I arched on him as he I moved, our skin was still slapping and sticky together.

Every few notes, his bow came off the strings and he pulled up in some kind of triangular form and brought it back down in a deeper note before continuing in the quick chase sound. I followed his rhythm, willing him to guide my speed. It was getting too fast for me and I noticed that his Ready-Or-Not O Face was back. His brow was scrunched, his eyes tightly closed, his teeth hanging over his bottom lip, his forehead glistening with sweat. But he kept playing.

Oh God, I was so close. Closer. Closer.

I rode him harder and deeper than before. I felt like a wild bull bucking to get a rider off my back.

"AH!" I screamed, rocking on him.

The notes were tight and sharp and I banged my hips against his in search of his pelvis. I found it every time and soon, the contractions in my pussy were not of my making.

"OH FUCK!" I screamed and I fell on him, my orgasm flooding my system.

I thought I was blind. I couldn't see, I couldn't hear. I couldn't feel. I felt as if I'd died somehow.

The playing suddenly stopped and his hands were on my hips again, pulling me against him. He was diving into me and my clit was throbbing after release. His pelvis hit it again and again and I screamed over and over and multiple after multiple hit me.

I was shaking against him, no longer able to move. I was barely able to feel everything that my body was feeling. I placed my arms on his shoulders for support and I let him use me. I made noises as he moved in me and I could suddenly hear him grunting under me.

I was whimpering by the time my sixth orgasm hit me and I was sure that I was going to die. Perhaps I was already dead. I couldn't take it anymore.

"Yeah," I heard him pant below me.

I opened my eyes and did my best to focus. With each move he made, my clit sent fiery electricity into my system and I shivered. The next thing I new, he stood up, taking me in his arms, and then he laid me on my back on the couch. We hadn't broken contact and he quickly put my legs over his shoulders and took me.

He pounded into me and I screamed every time; I didn't care who heard, if anyone. I was no longer aware of time and I wasn't sure if I'd been in the room with him for years or minutes. I felt his tongue licking down my sternum and then back up until he found my mouth. With the proximity and the angle of his body, my clit was being pounded in the most delicious way.

His tongue was fighting with mine and I gripped his arms, digging my nails in, as yet another orgasm ripped through me.

"I'm… cumming…," he panted into my ear.

I was thankful only because I wasn't sure I could take another orgasm. One more and I probably would have disintegrated.

His cock pulsed inside of me and I felt his balls slap my ass one more time before he groaned loudly. His back curved as he came and his O Face, as I was sure, was a thing of beauty. I can't even describe it. It was like looking into the face of an angel.

And then he collapsed on me, his lips seeking out a pebbled nipple before taking it between his lips. I felt him still inside of me, the fullness decreasing by the second. I felt warm and wet and sticky, but I didn't want him to move. Instead, I held him against me, one hand sliding into his wet hair and twirling strands in circles.

We lay there together, both our chests heaving. I could hear both our hearts racing and attempting to calm.

"Wow…," he said finally.

I was still immobile jelly and all I could do was nod minutely. I wasn't even sure he noticed. As he moved up to look at me, his pelvis hit my aching clit and I jumped with a squeal. He chuckled and kissed me.

"Sensitive?"

"Mmm," I said, smiling. "Deliciously so." He kissed me again and I was able to summon enough energy to kiss him back.

Even after he pulled out of me, he didn't move. I could feel him wet and sticky against my leg, but I didn't want him to move away. We were silent for a long time and he once again lay down on my chest, a hand absently tracing circles around my nipple.

"It's an antique, you know," he said, nodding his head over at the violin that had been discarded on the floor. "Not mine. It's on loan."

Finally able to think again, blood returning to my brain, I suddenly felt bad. No wonder he looked at me as if I'd gone crazy when I went for the violin. It was probably worth more than Daddy C's box and there I was, asking him to play it for me while I rode him like a crazed bull. I laughed thinking about it. Definitely, bar none, it was the best sex I'd ever had in my life. And probably the most orgasms combined.

"It's okay, right?" I asked, leaning over to make sure it wasn't scratched or covered in… liquids.

His hand tugged on my nipple and he kissed the space between my breasts. "I don't really care. It was worth it."

"Did you just make that up?" I asked, running my fingers through his damp hair. "The song?"

He kissed my chest again and licked up to the hollow between my collarbones. He shook his head and I felt his nose move across my skin. The point of his tongue dragged up my neck and to my chin before meeting my lips.

"It's called _Scherzo-Tarantelle_. I can't write music for crap," he admitted before sliding his tongue into my mouth again. I moaned.

"Let me guess. Mozart?"

He chuckled and slid his tongue over to my ear before he bit my earlobe. "Is that the only composer you know?"

I shook my head as he sucked on my ear. "Nope. I know Beethoven… Bach… Oh and Hans Zimmer. He did _Pirates_."

He laughed and came to kiss my lips again. His lips were fucking awesome. "It's by Wieniawski."

"Never heard of him."

One of his hands covered my breast and he tugged on my nipple again. It sent a shooting zing of electricity through me. It started a pulsing down below.

"I like classical music," I said randomly. He looked into my eyes, a playful smile on his lips. "Well, now I do," I admitted.

"Hmmm." He smiled before kissing me again. "I bet."

Before the show, I was not a fan of classical music. But now, I was going to get season tickets. "So when's your next performance?" I asked.

He stirred and leaned up on his elbow to look at me. His green eyes were piercing, as they had been in the black and white program I'd seen hours before. He smiled and I felt something hard move against my leg. Before I could look down to see what it was, he was kneeing my legs open.

"Now."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

**Author's Note:**

This is a oneshot. Albeit, a very _long_ oneshot. Still a oneshot nonetheless.

I'm not a musician and don't know very much about classical music and musical terms. I am sorry if I butchered anything. I was just having a bit o' fun.

As I noted earlier, I was inspired to write this after I watched _The Red Violin_. I recommend the movie for its beautiful violin music (played by Joshua Bell), and also for its interesting tale. If not for this scene, I might not have written this nonsense: _www(dot)youtube(dot)com/watch?v=yc1fguYopx0_

Bruch's _Violin Concerto No. 1 in G minor, Op. 26:_

_www(dot)youtube(dot)com/watch?v=rKwmfkDQ_Ws_

Tchaikovsky's _Violin Concert in D major, Op. 35_:

_www(dot)youtube[dot]com/watch?v=KkTPD9tvTEo_

_www(dot)youtube(dot)com/watch?v=2Q4GLJ2ECyg_

Wieniawski's _Scherzo-Tarantelle:_

_www(dot)youtube(dot)com/watch?v=bTDsQD00hUI_

I chose the concertos based solely on the fact that they are, in my personal opinion, the best of violin solo concertos.

Wieniawski was chosen because I think it sounds like a building orgasm, which is appropriate.

Thank you for reading.

-Sophia


End file.
